The Wardens' Duty
by Redhead Turk
Summary: Working title. Ten years after the Blight, the Warden-Commander never thought that she will have to save the world again. But when duty calls, she finds herself making the journey that goes farther into the darkness than ever before. R/R!
1. Introduction

Before starting, here are several decisions that were made before the beginning of the story.

Dragon Age: Origins-

Jowan betrayed  
Harrowmont made king  
Anvil destroyed  
Redcliffe saved  
Tower restored  
Both Isolde and Connor saved  
Neutral path for Brecilian Forest  
Warden's Keep completed (sided with Avernus)  
All party members recruited  
All personal quests completed  
No one hardened  
Anora made queen  
Loghain executed  
Alistair remains Grey Warden  
Dark ritual completed  
Alistair romanced

Dragon Age: Awakening-  
All parties recruited  
Vigil fully upgraded  
Vigilance made  
Rylock killed  
All personal quests completed  
Amaranthine saved

Dragon Age II-  
All parties recruited  
Bethany made Warden  
Anders romanced  
Legacy completed  
Mark of the Assassin completed  
All personal quests completed  
Aveline married  
Anders kept alive  
Sided with mages


	2. Prologue

Heed well my words, for the Maker has spoken;

Seven shall step forth to put the wrong to right.

The king who is no king but the protector,

The wizened, living on borrowed life

The exiled one, sinful in innocence

The silver knight, his soul dead

The hunter, hunting that which does not exist

The lost, anger lighting the way

And the guardian, the protector's queen.

These shall spring forth to end once and for all

The blight that began with the mortals' pride.


	3. A Dripping Guest

The summons came on a very rainy day, the sort of day when men got restless and women sat inside and drank tea.

The messenger, as was predictable, was soaked. His cloak was dripping rain all over the floor, and his boots would need thorough drying before the hearth. The horse was taken to the stables to be dried down with a thick cloth by the stablesmaster. The wind was cold and it howled as if it was not pleased with the current turn of the situation.

"I have an urgent message from Anderfels," he told the man who seemed to be in charge.

"For who?"

"The Hero of Ferelden."

The messenger was then made to wait for three hours until the said hero returned from the mission. Her party was on a raid, the man said, a routine hunt for the darkspawn that sometimes came out from the Deep Roads. He was dozing off in front of the fire when he heard footsteps that were quickly approaching his chamber: one was clearly wearing soft leather boots, another was heavier and he could hear the rattle of an armour, perhaps a sword banging into a shield. There were also voices. A woman was talking to a man. Not emotionally, no; the woman was just discussing matters, explaining something.

"Arian told me he's seeing dreams again," she was saying.

"But this can't be another Blight. We just had one!"

"I know." Her voice was a clear contralto. "But Arturo told me something similar as well."

"And you?"

A pause. "Not yet."

"I'm not saying I believe it's a Blight, but do we even know where the next one's going to be?" The man's voice had taken on a slight, plaintive note. "I mean, the archdemon can be anywhere. We just stumbled on it in Bownammar by pure dumb luck."

"Please don't remind me," the woman's voice said. "I nearly fell off that cliff, remember? That's one of my 'would not like to revisit' moments."

"I caught you."

"I nearly fell off."

"I still caught you."

"I know." Laughter. "What would I do without you?" Then footsteps continued, and the door suddenly opened.

There stood a woman and a man. The woman was an elf, her pointed ears slightly peeking from the dark hair that was cut right above the shoulders. She only reached the man's neck or so; the man was clearly human, tall and well-built, his blond hair cropped close to his scalp. They were still wearing cloaks, and both had long blades on their backs. The two were wearing Grey Warden-issued gear, the man in heavy armour and the woman in reinforced robes. There were bloodstains on the cloth of their gear, and he could see black, thick liquid smattered in their hair. Their faces were clean, however. But where was the Hero? He had heard that he was a tall man with jet black hair and electric blue eyes, well-built, and had a deep voice that could send glass shattering if he wished to. He looked to see if there was a third, and did not see any. Nope, just the two. The woman looked… ordinary, and she could not hide a yawn as they sat down. Was the man in command of the woman? Probably; the woman was an elf, after all, and she seemed to defer to him. Maybe his servant?

The messenger hastily got to his feet, but the man quickly gestured. "Sit down. You must be tired."

"Thank you, ser…" he was quickly interrupted by the man again.

"Alistair, please. I'm not so big into titles." The woman had went over to the fire and was pouring herself a cup of tea. "Pour me one," he said to her. The woman made a gesture of acknowledgement, and brought over two cups with the fragrance of tisane in the air.

As soon as they sat down, he looked around. "I have an urgent message for Hero of Ferelden, the Commander of the Grey of Orlais."

The man gestured to his companion, who was bringing the teacup to her lips with a clear lack of interest in the visitor. "You're talking to her."

The messenger stared. This elf was it? She looked… well, she was not what he had expected. He had expected a stern commander, perhaps radiating with power, or a grizzled veteran with gruff voice and a levelling gaze. But this woman was neither. She did not look like a Grey Warden at all; her arms were too slim to be wielding swords with ease, and her face was too gentle, her voice too quiet. The only thing that he could accept were her eyes. Startlingly grey, her eyes seemed to see everything about him, yet did not return the favour. Determination and experiences of both joy and sorrow were there. But otherwise, she looked like an elven mage strolling in the White Spire, save for her garb.

Then this 'Alistair' must be her companion. Story had it that they had met right before the Battle of Ostagar and had been inseparable ever since. Rumour also had it that Alistair had been heir to the throne of Ferelden, and he had simply given it up to the current reigning queen without much fuss. The messenger observed the man with scepticism. He didn't look much the image of a Grey Warden. His face was too open, his expression too congenial. He almost looked as if he was just out of adolescence, but the lines around his eyes told the messenger otherwise. He took her hand in a manner that told the messenger that this was his habit and without thought, and surprisingly - most female Wardens that he knew were independent, almost angry lot - she let him. The man's large hand almost enveloped hers, but he saw that her hand wasn't small; just slender, with long fingers. There were matching rings on their hands. They were married.

The messenger produced a scroll case that had been carried all the way from Weisshaupt. He handed it reverently to the Warden-Commander, who opened it without much thought or hesitation. She quickly scanned it, then showed it to her husband.

"Well, here it is," she said with a falsely cheerful air. "It's official now."

"The Blight, or the summons?" asked the man.

"Neither. We're to look for the reason why the raids are increasing in number and frequency." The elven mage made a face. "Evidently something like this happened before, but it stopped without a cause. It's been documented, but the Warden fortress that kept the records was destroyed some time ago." They stood up. "Thank you for delivering this. Have you been attended to?" asked the Warden-Commander.

"Um, no."

"Ask the quartermaster to put you up. He will provide you with most necessities. Now, if you'll excuse us, we need to start getting ready." With hurried footsteps and swirling of cloaks, they departed almost as unceremoniously as they had come in. The messenger stared at the seats where the Wardens had sat just a few moments before, puzzled. The Ander Wardens were grim, grave lot; but these two were starkly different. He remained in the seat for some time, trying to figure things out.

* * *

Alistair and Amarina were not particularly concerned with the messenger's opinions about them. They had things that they needed to attend to. For example, they needed to bathe. Darkspawn blood gunked up in Amarina's hair faster than she could cast Tempest, and quartermaster had threatened to stop washing bed linen if people continued to sleep in their beds covered in darkspawn blood. Neither of them cherished the thought of sleeping without clean sheets, and so washing it was.

Due to Grey Wardens coming back covered in filth, the compound had installed a water system so that warm water was accessible at all times. It involved a clever rigging of metal pipes and heating that had required quite a few of the mages. Amarina had no idea how it worked, but as long as it worked, she was not very concerned with it. She removed her tunic - that had to be thrown away, it was shredded beyond any hope of repair - and her trousers. That had to be cleaned. She got out of her shift and her smallclothes, resisting the urge to scratch at her healing wound on her arm. By the Maker, it itched like crazy.

Throwing her clothes into the laundry basket, she stepped into the tub, shivering. The hot water was almost scalding on her skin and she watched as her feet turned pink from the heat. A jar of soft, brown soap sat in the corner, and she scooped some out and smeared it into her hair. Black clots fell out, trailing black ooze that was mixed with suds of soap. She quickly washed it off with more water, slightly disgusted. It smelled awful. The sewer system for the compound had to be specially designed, due to the toxic nature of darkspawn blood. The water was collected into an underground vat, which was then neutralised with a special potion that was brewed by the mages of the order. It was tedious work.

Once she was clean, she opened the little flap on the bottom of the tub that released the water, and stepped out of the tub. She dried herself as the water gurgled out of sight. Dressing herself in a warm gown, she left the bathing room and returned to the suite. Alistair had already returned and was in a chair, dozing. She sat across from him and watched him. He had not changed much since that sunny day in Ostagar… no, he had. Grief, responsibility, fear, and difficult decisions had erased the angelic youthfulness from his face a little. He wasn't quite a boy anymore. His hair was still wet, plastered flat onto his scalp, and there was a healing scar on his cheek.

Well, she could not just keep staring at him forever. "Wake up, Alistair," she said quietly.

"Huh?" His eyes fluttered as sleep threatened to take over him again.

"I know you're tired," she said. "But don't sleep in a chair, you'll catch cold. Go to bed."

"You look sleepy too," he noted. She yawned so largely that he feared her jaw would dislocate. "You should take a nap."

"I…" another yawn. "I think I will."

They crawled into bed and fell asleep as soon as their heads hit the pillows. They had been asleep for several hours when they were roused by a loud knock on the door. "Warden-Commander!" called the voice from outside. "Is Warden-Commander in?"

They sat up, rubbing sleep from their eyes. "Stay there," he told his wife. "I'll get the door."

"What…? Why?"

He looked at her general chest area. "I can see it."

"What?" She looked down; she then remembered that all she had done was throw on a robe. Now that the tie around her waist was loose, she understood that people could see the contours of her breasts down to her navel. And as much as she did not consider herself the beauty of the order, she also understood that women were scarce and men had needs. "Alright."

Alistair went to open the door while she sank into the sheets again. The man in the doorway stared at Alistair, who was clearly naked underneath the robe he was wearing, and then looked at the woman in his bed. He was new to the Val Royeaux branch; he had been in Ghislein before as a recruit, and had been sent here to replace old Stephan who had gone to his Calling a few months before.

"Is that…"

"Yes. That's my wife. What is it?"

"Um…"

"Get on with it, man. I haven't all day."

In the meanwhile, Amarina was slowly dozing off again. The bed was comfortable, warmed by their bodies, but she felt the chill and regretted not dressing properly. The bed smelled of her husband, and she hugged the pillow as she closed her eyes, enjoying the bed. She was almost asleep when her husband returned. "What was it?" She asked, her voice muffled with the duvet.

"Just that the reports have arrived from Montsimmard." He slid into bed next to her, then smiled as he saw that she had already fallen back asleep. The battle had not been a skirmish, as they had expected, but rather a full-on engagement. While the warriors and the rogues had been engaged with the genlocks, hurlocks and the shrieks, Amarina had to handle a trio of particularly stubborn emissaries. The battle had drained her.

The day passed quickly with things to be done chasing after her like a hound. The two woke up in the afternoon, feeling refreshed and slightly more energetic. Alistair went to the warriors' quarters to oversee the training regimen, while Amarina took care of her side of the business. There were household things to be taken care of, Warden matters to be done. She had scant time to make dinner, but thankfully her husband was not a fussy eater. She had finished ironing and was polishing boots and shoes when Gaspard popped his head into their suite.

"What are you doing?" he asked curiously. She shook a rag in her hand, blackened and browned in shoe wax. He saw linen shirts, ironed and folded, lying in an armchair. She sat, crosslegged like a Rivaini pirate, dressed in white loose-fitting linen shirt and leather breeches.

"Polishing shoes? Ironing shirts? Why? There are people who can do it for you."

Amarina snorted. "I'm not letting another woman touch Alistair, Gaspard."

"Even his feet?"

"Exactly. He's mine." She looked curious as he began snickering. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing." He continued snickering. Her possessiveness of her husband was a little endearing, but all in all, funny. She had no problems letting him wander around the Free Marches and come back with scrapes and bruises, but Maker forbid if some other woman even touched his linen. Alistair wasn't handsome; pleasant to look at yes, but he lacked the delicate grace handsome faces had. He supposed Alistair's heritage as the bastard prince and the stories that the bards told were enough to set some women tittering.

She put the boot down. "What is it, Gaspard?"

"I was actually looking for Alistair, but you'll suffice."

"Thank you," she said dryly.

"I heard that you got a missive from Anderfels."

She was smearing brown shoe wax onto her boot. "Yes," she said without looking up.

"Did it list anyone else?"

"Anyone who can help," she said as she vigorously rubbed the leather. "Well, it mentioned Alistair and me specifically, but it also said any veterans. And no, I haven't a clue what's happening," she confessed. "Which makes me nervous. I'd rather know about another archdemon waking up than walking into it in the middle of Deep Roads. But surely you didn't come for gossip. Or did you?"

"Not really. Truth is, I'm tired of raids, and I was wondering who you were bringing with you. Surely you don't mean to go just by yourselves?"

"That would be a bit foolhardy." She tightened the laces on her boot, then began to work on the other. "Would you like to come? I was going to ask around to know who would be so sick of Orlais to come to Ferelden and Maker knows where else, but I'd rather have a friend than someone I don't know very well."

"Done!" said the man happily. "When are we leaving?"

"In a few weeks or so. As soon as I get everything done. Do you reckon Levian would like to come along?"

Gaspard grinned mischievously. "Actually, he was the one who told me about it."

"I see. I'd rather have a healer with us, so we'll have to look around, but I think that's set, then." She finally finished taking care of footwear. "We should start preparing. I'd rather leave before snow starts falling in the Frostback. I heard the mountains become incredibly difficult to cross."

"It is," said the man who had nearly been snowed in the Anderfel mountains when he previously had gone to Weisshaupt. "Even during the best season mountains can be tricky."

Amarina, who was vigorously washing hands in a basin and scrubbing her nails clean, dried her hands on a towel. "Well, let's go then. We'll find Alistair and Levian, and get started."

The men seemed rather relieved to be going, which made the Warden-Commander the only one who was reluctant to leave. As the men made several banters that clearly informed her that they were happy with the prospect of the journey, she sighed. Men were always men; why couldn't they just be content with staying in one place and living in domesticity? When their bantering had reached the point of "we need to pack a deck of cards" and "Gaspard, you owe me five royals from the round of Diamondback last week", she finally saw the need to intervene.

"Boys, boys," she said in an exasperated voice, "this is not some grand adventure in some Orlesian epic."

"It might become one, considering you're in it," Gaspard pointed out. "You seem to attract trouble like nobles to prostitutes."

"Or we might end up darkspawn fodder in some back road in Nevarra."

That sobered the men up considerably. "Why do you always need to feel like spoiling the sport?" grumbled the Dalish elf.

"Somebody has to. With all the hoopla you're doing, it sounds like we're going to a party."

"And here my wife sees the need to dampen our cheer. You're not usually glum like this. What's wrong?"

"Glad to see you're on my side, as always," said the accused wife. "The reason I'm glum is because Weisshaupt said to look, but not the reason. It's either they can't tell me because it's too secret, or they think we'll run as fast as our legs can carry us away from Anderfels if we knew the reason. My guess is the latter."

"You've defeated the archdemon, killed The Architect, defeated the Harvester and a varterral. What can scare you away?"

The ex-Templar and the mage looked at each other. "Another archdemon," said the two Fereldans in unison.

"You survived."

"By pure dumb luck!" Alistair snapped; Amarina recoiled a little. She knew exactly what he had done to save both their lives, and she'd be damned if he had to do it again. Once was enough. The fact that Morrigan bore him a child while she could not still nagged at her like a sore tooth. He told her he was not concerned, and she knew he wasn't lying, but that did not mean she wasn't concerned either. Not that luck had not been involved prior to the final moment. Alistair's chest burn would never heal completely; the scar was still there, the faint discolouration where the chestpiece of his armour had nearly melted into his skin. They could have both died from their wounds even after the Archdemon had been defeated.

The air significantly lost its cheer after that. While they continued to discuss the tasks that had to be taken care of, correspondences to be answered and supplies to be purchased, a mage recruit came running in, begging for Alistair's help. A mage and a Templar recruit were fighting, he said, and it was getting out of control. Alistair went out in a run. A few minutes later, another recruit came in, asking Amarina to please sort out the recruit records as someone had mixed them up and they were now a mess.

"Well, there isn't much point discussing things now," Amarina said as she stood up. "I say meet back later when we don't have things hounding our backs."

And that was that. Gaspard walked off to send a message to his father. Levian sat in the room, staring into the teacup and wondering if this would be just a small task again, or part of something that was far larger than it seemed.

* * *

Alistair's task of keeping peace between the Templars and the mages in the Order was much harder than it looked.

For one thing, nobody understood that being an ex-Templar and having a mage wife would have made him understand both sides. When he sided with the mages, the Templars whispered that he was just doing that because of his wife (evidently no one realised that the person who received the most of his Templar skills was, in fact, his wife), and when he sided with his former brothers-in-arms, the mages murmured that old habits and old beliefs never went away. Which drove him crazy.

But this contentious pair was the worst so far. Gelsomina, a blood mage who had been rescued from execution by the Templars, and the Templar Leonard Durand probably would not have lasted a few minutes in the same room, let alone on a mission. It did not help that Gelsomina seemed far busier seducing the men than attending to her duties, and that she seemed to feel superior to others because she was a mage. Durand did not seem to grasp the concept that he was no longer a Templar, and that mages, maleficar or not, were no longer his concern.

"Alright, that's enough!" he yelled as he followed the youngster who came to fetch him into the large room. The two paid scant attention to the Senior Warden, who was standing with arms crossed, looking very irritated. Alistair was generally an amicable man, but most of those close to him knew not to make him angry. Amarina's anger came in small bursts, but once Alistair exploded, nothing could stop him. His wife generally made it a point to apologise before his anger grew after a few fights earlier on in their relationship that resulted in broken furniture. Once Alistair Theirin put his foot down, there was no changing his mind, Maker's help or no.

But these two had no idea.

His irritation mounted until his colleagues went scuttling away for safety. He did not notice, as he was too busy counting to fifty before unleashing his irritation on the hapless duo. He hadn't battled emissaries for so long without picking up a few tricks; one of them involved knocking the mage out clean off the feet. He concentrated for a moment, then unleashed his will, smiting both with a tremendous bang that left them stunned and dazed.

"Stop it this instant!" He bellowed. "By the Maker, you two fight each other more than you fight darkspawn! Stop it!"

The two stood, still stunned.

"Durand!" He pointed a sword at the Templar. The blade blazed a happy blue as it was unsheathed from the scabbard; there was a flowing script running down the blade that said "In War, Victory". "I know you were a Templar, but good god, man, you're a Grey Warden now! It doesn't matter if she's a maleficarum or not, as long as she's fighting darkspawn! And you!" he now waved his sword at the woman. "Stop picking fights with the Templars! You're a Grey Warden first. You don't see Warden-Commander picking fights with the Templars, do you?"

"The Warden-Commander warms the bed of one," Gelsomina retorted. Alistair brushed the insult off. One did not keep order in this rowdy group of people from all walks of life by taking insults personally, and it was common knowledge that he was married to her.

"If you two fight again," he threatened, "I'm going to shut you two in the Deep Roads for a week. That might teach you to cooperate."

"What's the problem?"

He turned and saw his wife, her arms filled with scrolls. Two Wardens stood behind her, their arms also loaded with scrolls. "Why are you here?" he asked.

"I was on the way to the quartermaster when I heard a loud bang. I thought something exploded."

"Oh, that was me." He sheathed his sword, which was still cheerfully spitting out blue sparks. "Sorry."

"It's not your fault." She stood, feet apart, frowning at the two who were coming out of the stunned daze. "Just let me know if those two decide to destroy the compound. We'll need to initiate evacuation drill." With a ghost of a chortle, she walked away, her lackeys in tow. He smiled fondly at her. Many women, like Anora, often took over and ran men's lives. Not her. She'd help if he asked for it, but otherwise she left him to his own devices. He had initially feared that the stubborn woman would insist on running his life - not that he minded that too much, but he did appreciate some autonomy - but to his surprise and dismay, she did no such thing. Instead, she carried on like she always had. Her life as a Circle mage had taught her to treat men just as she would women, and that placed her apart from Anora, who was the dominant partner in her marriage with Cailan, or Isolde, who was the exact opposite.

Seeing his wife and remembering her search for a healer brought him an idea. "Gelsomina, you trained as a healer," he said, his expression asking for confirmation. The woman, barely out of girlhood, nodded.

"The Warden-Commander is looking for a healer for the upcoming journey," he explained. "You will accompany her."

"What?"

"You heard me," he replied to her outburst. "Otherwise we'll return to the compound to see a full-blown war. Start preparing."

"But I've never gone into the wilderness!"

"And there's always a first for everything. Now, get going. You'll have lots to do. We leave in a few weeks." Without giving a pause, he ushered the girl out, then watched as the girl stalked away. As soon as she was out of eyesight, Durand looked at him.

"That was…"

"No, I don't want to hear a word out of you," the was-to-be king snapped.

"Well…"

"Not. One. Word." He turned on his heels and left to find his wife to tell her that her search was over. He was slightly worried - Gelsomina was going to be a trouble - but Amarina had handled worse. Feeling slightly better about the incident, he set off to search for his wife, who was so busy these days it seemed that she never stayed in one place for more than ten minutes.

He found her with the quartermaster, who was arguing with the Warden-Commander. He was known as one of the very few people who could talk her down and overrule her. He was an elderly man with rheumy eyes and a slightly hunched back, but that evidently did not hinder him from going about his business. He was the one who took care of everything that went on in the compound, and it was generally known that there was nothing that went on within the compound that this man did not know. Alistair had a disturbing thought that he probably even knew what went on in their bedroom, every fight they had, his favourite kind of cheese.

"I can't get all this in a week," the quartermaster said stubbornly.

"I know, Guillaume. But we're leaving soon." She cocked her head and wore a pleading expression, which she rarely did with him. "Please?"

"Impossible."

"Is there anything I can do to convince you otherwise?"

"No. I can't get this many potions in a week."

"Fine. I'll make the rest." She threw her hands in the air and sighed in defeat, then turned her head and saw her husband, who was watching the exchange with a very amused look on his face. "I hope that exchange was entertaining, Alistair. At least someone can have a laugh."

"I found you a healer."

Her face brightened. "Is that so? Who?"

"Gelsomina."

Without a word, she yanked him out the quartermaster's office. "What did you say?" She demanded as soon as the quartermaster was out of earshot.

"Gelsomina Felandera."

She stared into his golden eyes and he stared back. She lost the staring match. "I hope you're jesting," she whispered. "That girl is one archdemon short of a Blight, Alistair."

"Why do I feel like we've had this conversation before?" he wondered.

"Don't deflect. Are you serious?"

"I thought it'll knock out two birds with one stone. You said you were looking for a healer, and leaving those two in the same compound would be a bad idea."

"I hope you know what you're doing…" was the murmur he received. "Jader and Montsimmard refused to keep her, you know. We had to take her in."

"I know, I know." He patted her hair soothingly. "Have you eaten?" He did not wait for her answer, as she had to think for a moment. "Clearly, you haven't. Come on."

"I have to go and…"

"No. You're eating. Last thing I need is for you to pass out in middle of a spell."

Amarina did not object any further as she may have done in the past, but silently followed him. He had gotten a little more assertive, she noted, over the past few years… or perhaps she had become more pliant. Regardless, he was leading her more and following her less. It was odd, in a way, since in the beginning Alistair had reminded her slightly of a big shaggy dog, following her everywhere and never asserting himself. She supposed he had gotten used to her. Alistair was generally shy around new people, often deflecting questions with banter. But after that initial stage was over, he began to show his true colours, some of them rather acerbic, depending on who you were. His comments could be just as biting as Morrigan's.

Alistair managed to load more food than she could eat onto her plate, as usual, which was quite a lot, with both being Grey Wardens. But then again, he loaded the same amount onto his own and managed to finish it in its entirety down to the last drop of sauce, so perhaps it was just the difference of physique. Amarina had never been the most robust; she had never been terribly sick, but she had often come down with chills and head colds throughout her youth. There had been a very persistent cold when she was seventeen that had forced her to sneeze and cough for an entire week non-stop. Her body had filled out into a womanly form during her adolescence, but she would never be a buxom maiden like Lily. She had once envied the more curvaceous apprentices that she studied with, but had given that faint dream up long ago after seeing a few terrible failures by her fellows that involved enhancing breasts. They generally ended up in the infirmary with embarrassing effects and a very irate healer. She had been all long, thin limbs as a child, and she seemed to be cursed with the thin bones in adulthood. There wasn't much point in crying about it.

"You didn't finish," he accused when he saw her sit back, napkin on the table. She stared at him.

"This is enough for three, Alistair. I just don't want the potatoes, I've eaten bread."

"And I can snap your wrist with my right hand."

"You could always do that, if you tried." Also true; her wrists had been so small it had easily fit into his hand. Many times he had taken advantage of it while holding her down when the fight got a bit more physical than either had intended, which had been often during the first two years of their marriage. Two stubborn people trying to get their own ways generally did not end peacefully.

Alistair sat back and watched as Amarina meticulously peeled off the skin of a peach with her knife, then slice the peach into wedges. She ate slowly and methodically, concentrating on the fruit as if it was her last meal. The fruit was the white variety, and he noted with some humour that the skin of the peach was exactly the same hue as his wife's own skin. She always had a penchant for fresh fruit.

"Right, I'm done," she said finally as she finished chewing on the last slice of the fruit. "I have to go and finish the missives. Can you tell Levian and Gaspard to start checking on their supplies?"

"I'll go get your sword from the smithy. Did you want Vigilance?" Her sword had to be repaired after she parried a dagger away from her face a few weeks before.

She thought for a moment. "No, I'll stick to Spellweaver… I think."

"Right."

The two left the Mess Hall and went to attend to their own tasks. The smith grumbled that the Warden-Commander had no idea how to use a sword, and he had to bite down a wry smile. Amarina had never trained as a warrior, and lacked the basic discipline to be one. She had the knowledge of being an arcane warrior and was probably the very last in Thedas, but her primary training had been in wielding the arcane.

At precisely the fifth hour, the announcements went up in the Mess Hall. The Wardens crowded around it, reading the commands from their Warden-Commander. Some of them were mundane, but others were more serious; three, in particular, was in regards to the expedition they were planning. It made an announcement that Amarina Theirin, Alistair Theirin, Gaspard de Soliere, Levian Rahndael, Gelsomina Felandera and one other would venture out into the Anderfels to answer the summons of the First Warden. Another announced that while the Commander of the Grey was in absentia, the Senior Warden Adrian Vega was to act in her stead. Et cetera. Each was signed by the elven Warden-Commander, and was stamped with the official seal of the Grey Wardens. The colour of the seal was yellow, which was the designated colour for Orlais.

Of course, there was a stampede to the office of the Commander of the Grey as soon as the majority finished reading the announcements. Alistair went ahead of them by going through their suite and knocked on the door. Amarina opened it immediately, and a look of relief came across her face when she saw who it was. It was curious, really, since only he had access to the suite other than herself.

"Hiding out here, my dear wife?" He asked as he entered her office. The office was cluttered with maps on the walls, quills on the desk, books stacked on the floor and scrolls in an armchair by the bookcase. The room also smelled faintly of lyrium and, for some reason, peonies. It was an odd combination but not unpleasant.

"Not very successfully," she replied as she kissed him as a greeting. Her breath smelled of tisane. "I can hear them coming."

He grinned at her. "You sound as if they're darkspawn."

"They're worse. I can't cut them down or freeze them then shatter them. Would you like to have some tea?"

Alistair said yes, and so a few minutes later he sat in her armchair, nursing a cup of fragrant tisane with citrus peels. She was in her Warden blue again, probably to give herself an air of authority. She wasn't a very authoritative figure; she was too petite, too slender to be so, and her face was far too soft for that. She looked a trifle uncomfortable in it. Generally, she wore thin gowns and soft linen shirts in privacy. She never was the one to wear any sort of armour if she did not need to.

There was a sharp rap on the door. "Come in," said the Warden-Commander without looking up; she was studying a letter from Avernus, who was regularly sending her updates on his research. She was also funding his projects, much to others' dismay. As the Warden-Commander of Orlais she personally received quite a large stipend, which generally ended up in a chest in her office, unused. Her section in the vault was nearly overflowing with precious gems and trinkets that she had picked up through her travels. But all she seemed to value were personal gifts from her friends and the rose Alistair had given her when they initially embarked on this relationship.

The door creaked open, and there stood a dozen Wardens, each wearing a different expression.

"What is the meaning of this?" The dark-skinned Antivan demanded, while others clamoured in, some in question, some in plain anger, some in agreement and some just to make noise. Amarina stared at them blankly for a moment.

"One at a time, please. Adrian, you first."

"What do you mean, I'm in charge?" The Antivan demanded. "Is this some kind of a trick?"

"No trick, Senior Warden," she replied soothingly. Amarina knew Adrian was not happy with her being named the Warden-Commander; for one thing, she was significantly younger than he was, and for another, she was an elf and a woman, and he retained all the prejudices Antivans had. This was going to be tricky. "I thought you knew the Wardens the best, and therefore you would be the best to serve the order as the leader while I am gone."

"You lie!"

She shrugged. "If that makes you happy, Senior Warden, then by all means, do believe that. But my order remains."

Alistair watched with amusement as the man left the office, nearly frothing at the mouth. The Wardens that followed in had various things to say, some very unpleasant, some purely peculiar, and some others just pleas to let them join the expedition. Amarina evaded the insults skillfully, sent the peculiar ones back on their way, and informed them that applications to join the expedition must be written, not verbally delivered. In an hour the crowd in front of her office was gone, leaving a very tired Warden-Commander and her very amused husband in the office.

Amarina stretched her arms, and then sprawled onto the desk in a defeated manner. "I think I'm done for the day," she declared. "The letters to Jader and Montsimmard have to wait. I really can't bother to do anything now."

"Why do you need to send letters to Montsimmard and Jader?"

"To maintain the status quo. I don't want Adrian ruling with an iron fist. I like the two outposts maintaining their autonomy." She stood up and began to pull off her long blue surcoat. After a few moments of struggling, she managed to pull it off her head; she tossed the tunic behind her, then stretched languidly like a cat. "That feels much better."

The evening was spent quietly; Gaspard came over to share the meal, which was galimafree with rye bread. As they ate, they discussed the road to Anderfels, what to pack, and what to watch out for. As Gaspard was the only one who had been there before, the two Fereldan Wardens found his advice invaluable. Quietly but quickly, the Wardens began to prepare inexorably for a very long and difficult journey.


	4. Fears and Cheers

LifeandFire25 - Thanks for your first review! This is my first serious Dragon Age novel, so I'm still feeling my way through. I originally intended Fenris to be Hawke's lover, and even had a few scenes written already, but decided that Fenris had another role in the story. So I had to do some subbing.

Ygrain33 - As I'm not married, it was hard to imagine what they'd be like. I'm glad you like it; at least that means I'm doing something right. I didn't want the Warden to be pulling Alistair around by the nose, so the power balance is difficult. The Wardens will be going to a lot of places, hopefully before DA3 comes out, so I won't be making stuff up to be proven wrong later.

Sorry for a very long chapter; this is being written as a normal novel, not for ffn, so I can't break the chapters up. If you have suggestions, let me know!

* * *

Opalia came and went. The city of Val Royeaux celebrated the harvest festival with much grandeur, and the Wardens were not immune to its merriment. Casks of wine were opened, and the tables were laden with food in the Mess Hall, and the Wardens, generally grim people with doom hanging over their heads most of the time, shed their grim fate for a week and basked in the joy of drinking and tomfoolery.

The Commander of the Grey of Orlais was generally invited over to some parties with her husband, and was therefore generally away during these events. The Wardens got generous donations from the nobles after they had heard how this slight elven woman had quelled the Blight and had saved Thedas from destruction. Much to Amarina's dismay, this meant donations - which she more than welcomed - but also required attendance to whatever festivities they saw fit to hold. And Opalia was no exception.

"Two Fereldans at Celene's party," she mumbled as she pulled on a stiff surcoat of the Wardens over her dress. "Loghain would have had an apoplectic fit."

Alistair, who was pulling on a grey hose, looked up. "I wonder how my brother was going to pull off divorcing Anora and marrying Celene, you know."

Amarina stopped her hand. Not once had Alistair referred to Cailan as "brother". But it had been years since the Battle of Ostagar; perhaps his wounds were beginning to heal. She also had a distinct feeling that this was perhaps because he had a family now, namely, herself and his friends. He had told her once that he had always felt a gaping hole made by the fact that he was an orphan with no family to call his, and that she had mended it when they had gotten married. Over the years she had learned that while Alistair looked a simpleton, he was just as complicated as Zevran was. But that, Leliana had said, was just who the men were.

"Ugh." She shifted her shoulders slightly. "I hate breast girdles." The Orlesian fashion was much more advanced than Fereldan, and there were many parts to the female dress that made absolutely no sense. For the Warden-Commander who was usually dressed in brown trousers and a linen shirt, things like breast girdle and snood just seemed excessive and unnecessary. It wasn't like Amarina could wear the bejewelled crespine, anyway. Her hair was too short.

Alistair watched his wife as he dressed himself. She looked very good in the Warden blue; the kirtle was grey with trains to honour the formal occasion, and the surcoat was made of deep blue velvet, lined with silvery grey silk that bore her heraldry, a griffon with a single white rose in its beak. Her dark hair was as usual, shorn just above the shoulders. A brown belt cinched the surcoat at her waist, the buckle adorned with a silver griffon.

"What are you looking at?" his wife asked curiously as she finished buckling her belt. He tore his eyes away from her and resumed his task. He pulled on the grey cotehardie, then the blue houppelande. The outer garment was made of the same blue velvet as Amarina's surcoat, and was lined with the similar fabric, but his rose was red, not white. He picked up a similar belt to his wife's, although made from a bit wider leather, and began wrapping it around his hip. Amarina was putting on the baldric; as the Warden-Commander of Orlais she was allowed to come into the Empress' presence armed with a blade. The blade, however, was more ornamental than anything else for her. Her Spellweaver and Vigilance were in their stands beside her desk in her office. Magically imbued with untold powers, they were magnificent weapons that had slain more than one could count.

In half an hour, they were dressed and ready. Swords were sheathed in their baldrics, the surcoat and houppelande worn and cinched. They blew out the candles and left the suite. Alistair heard the commotion in the Mess Hall and turned his head, a forlorn expression on his face.

"I'm sorry," said the elven mage. "I don't want to go either, but we have to appease the nobility. They are our patrons, after all."

"I know." He resumed walking again. "It's just that…"

"Hm?"

"Well, I'd rather spend the evening with you alone." The tone of his voice hinted that if he had his way, they won't be sleeping very much that evening.

The Commander of the Grey blushed.

Gaspard de Soliere joined them at the door; as the son of a powerful duke, he knew almost everyone who was coming to the party. He was dressed similarly to the Fereldans, his blond hair swept behind his ears and tied with a blue ribbon at the nape of his neck. He wore a longsword today, one of the Warden issues, with a golden griffon engraved on the hilt. "Ah, here's the famous couple," he said with a smile that transformed his otherwise cold face into something that was affable. "Looking forward to the party?"

Alistair laughed. "Sure, why not. It's not like I refused the throne to avoid this."

"But the made-up women! The men clad in silks! The cheeses!"

"Of course. That's all there is to life."

They were carried by a waiting carriage to the palace, the wheels clattering along the cobbled streets through Val Royeaux. People were still awake and walked the streets, but made way for the carriage bearing the mark of the Empress, flanked by silver-armoured chevaliers. There were nobles going to the red light district, merchants closing shops or making last minute deals, messengers doing last minute errands. The Waking Sea lapped against the shores sleepily, the moon singing a soft lullaby. Amarina could see the White Spire in the distance like a ghostly finger of a bone pointing an accusing finger at the sky… or the Maker. She was not sure which.

The Wardens were shown into the palace when they arrived into the courtyard. The sentries frowned at their long blades on their backs, but a quick bark from the butler sent them away; although the Grey Wardens were under each nation's sovereign jurisdiction, the monarchs also understood the importance in their presence, especially after the fiasco in Ferelden in which the regent had successfully wiped out almost all Grey Wardens and placed a bounty on the two surviving members of the Order. After the news spread, they were terrified that without the Wardens, their nation may be overrun a century or two from now. And so, they were freed from many shackles each sovereign placed upon the citizens.

Despite Alistair's repeated claim that he had abdicated all rights to the throne of Ferelden, the Orlesians still evidently saw him as the bastard son of Maric and some did not bother to hide their hostilities against the "bastard dog prince of Ferelden" - that is, until his slender wife came near them. Then they were all oily smiles. Some assumed that the bastard had married the Commander of the Grey to seek her protection, but nobody said it out loud. Alistair ignored them; he was not particularly concerned with the Orlesian nobility, and for better or for worse, the Theodosians owed him and his wife their lives. And he thought that Rabbit was far nobler than some of the Orlesians that deigned to call him names.

"The Grey Wardens, Alistair and Amarina Theirin!" The herald boomed into the hall when the Wardens and the butler walked up to the gilt and heavily jewelled double doors. The two put on a rather tense smile that "felt more like a facial exercise". The nobles would be crowding around them in a minute, just so that they could later casually say, "oh, I was talking to the Commander of the Grey the other day…". It amazed her every time when she realised that people saw different entities in others just because of the titles; the Orlesians evidently saw three or four different people in Alistair, for example, from "the bastard son of the usurper" to "the Commander of the Grey's husband" to "the Grey Warden", but very few seemed to see that at the end of the day, he was just Alistair. Sure enough, some noble lady - minor, from the look of his robe - sidled up to the blond Warden with a smile on her face that seemed a bit too wide for her jaw to be natural. Alistair cast a helpless look at his wife as she drifted away, accosted by some nobleman who was dressed rather opulently in orange and green. She heard Gaspard being announced - not as a Warden, but as the son of a Duke - and turned to face her first opponent.

Amarina was not very pleased to see the nobleman. She had met him before, and he annoyed her to no end. He seemed to chatter incessantly, his flow peppered with hiccuppy shrieks of laughter that evidently grated on everyone's nerves but his. He chattered about everything from cabbage to kings, unaware that the Warden-Commander's attention had drifted away. Amarina's attention had managed to wander during her own wedding, and it certainly was wandering off now. For some reason, his breath smelled of garlic, and she wondered what in the name of the Maker he had eaten before coming to the party. Most Orlesian foods were not so heavily seasoned. She was about to wrinkle her nose in distaste before she managed to stop herself.

By some dumb luck, she heard her name being called in the distance, and realised that she must pay her respects to the Orlesian empress. "Excuse me," she said as politely as she could, "I must pay my respects to her majesty."

"Oh, of course!" exclaimed the obnoxious man as she hurried away. Patchouli, vervaine and garlic did not go well together, Amarina decided. She wasn't used to men being perfumed, either. Her husband smelled of soap when washed, but mostly leather with a slight tang of metal, and quite often, darkspawn blood.

She went on to found her husband being flagged down by a woman who was as thin as a reed, and almost taller than he. He seemed a bit flustered as the lady chatted away. A wave of sweet-smelling fragrance hit her nose as she approached, and she absently wondered why she couldn't be like one of them; she wasn't grizzled like the women chevaliers, she didn't have that aloofness or the female mages (or did she? She wasn't sure), and she didn't fawn and smile like the female nobles. It couldn't be just because she was Fereldan. She felt out of place amongst men because she was a woman, and amongst women because she wasn't quite a woman either.

"But surely," the young lady was purring, "your highness can spare a few moments alone?"

"Um, no," Alistair replied with a panicked look on his face. "And please don't call me your highness. I'm just a Grey Warden."

"But I have heard the tales, how the prince, denied of his throne, still yet dedicated his life to save the country he so loved…" the woman went on. Alistair's eyes showed relief when he saw his wife approaching. And a plea for rescue. Amarina nodded from behind the noblewoman, a slight smile on her face.

"Excuse me," she said, "but may I have my husband back? We are called to pay our respects to the Empress."

The woman became befuddled at once, realising that the woman who stood before her was the Commander of the Grey and the wife of the man she was trying to seduce. With a very long sword on her back. "I, I beg your pardon, my lady!" She mumbled. "My humblest apologies…" when she looked up, the two blue-clad figures were already disappearing into the crowd, the hilts serving as standards to announce their rank and their membership to the Order so old that it predated the Chantry itself.

"Thanks," Alistair whispered, relieved, as he waded through the crowd of people. Amarina's slender hand found its way into his, and he felt her squeeze. He was aware of the political power his wife could wield, and just why these Orlesians wanted her attention. Even the Empress listened to her when she made her demands, which had happened exactly once before: when she had asked to enter the Great Library of the University of Orlais in search for an ancient tome. Alistair had no doubt that if she wished, his wife'd be granted a grand duchy in her name and all sorts of wealth. But what was wealth when you had Calling further down the road in a decade or two? And she seemed to almost squirm away from such things. Good food, gentle breeze, a good night's sleep and a soft bed made her happy. Not a grand duchy.

"What did she want to talk about?" Amarina asked innocently, knowing that it would fluster her husband even more.

"Um, er, she er…"

"Alistair, you can tell me. I won't bite your head off… I think."

"She er, wanted to talk about.. Um." He mumbled. "She wanted to talk?"

Amarina laughed. "And?"

"And what?"

"Why do you think she wanted to talk?"

Alistair looked at her blankly, then blushed furiously. Amarina laughed even more.

"You knew it!" he accused.

"Of course I did," she replied with some cheer.

"And you still asked?" he shook his head. "You're turning into Wynne. Are all women this evil?"

"I was satisfying my pride, Alistair. It's nice to know that your spouse is so handsome he's desirable to others after so many years of marriage." She continued to laugh as they made their way through the throng.

They walked up to the chair where Celene sat. A long rosewood table sat before her, loaded with foods from around the world: sugared grapes, exotic dishes, cheeses to name a few. A red velvet carpet, so thick that one could almost bounce on it, extended from where she sat down the steps and a few yards beyond, fringed and embroidered with gold. The stained-glass windows sparkled like huge jewels.

"The Grey Wardens!" The herald thundered. Celene nodded languidly, her blond hair held in a silvery net. A delicate crown was perched atop her head, and her gown was of the deepest purple silk, with narrow waist, full sleeves, and an even fuller skirt. She raised a white, slender hand, not with the paleness of the Warden-Commander that spoke on hours spent in darkness, but rather from lack of being outdoors. She was not a young woman, but age had been incredibly kind to her, and the features that would have been striking in youth had matured into a commanding presence. Her blonde hair was held up in a crespine that sparkled with what must be priceless gemstones. Her eyes were arresting, with a hint of overripeness that promised dark pleasures.

Celene observed the slender elf in front of her. Ferelden women were notorious shrews, and she had met Anora, the Queen of Ferelden before; initially she had expected a very similar woman, but the woman in front of her was far from it. She seemed too old to be a girl, too naive to be a woman. There was a sense of innocence about her, as if she believed the world of treachery, chicanery and lies to be something far apart from her. She sensed something similar in the elf's husband; a trusting nature, perhaps, or the refusal to know that the world was an evil place, a place that needed to be manipulated. But surely they were aware that the world was not a bed of roses; they were Grey Wardens, the bastion of defence against the prime evil that plagued Thedas. The woman, especially, had outmaneuvered Loghain Mac Tir, the late Teyrn of Gwaren who had single-handedly defeated a legion of chevaliers at the Battle of River Dane, and had built an army from nothing but a piece of paper. All in all, they were a pair of enigmas.

Alistair knelt while Amarina curtsied, heads bent in an air of obeisance.

"Welcome," Celene said, her voice commanding power, yet smooth and sultry. "We thank you for coming, Grey Wardens. We are honoured by your presence."

"Your majesty is too kind," the Warden-Commander murmured; in contrast to the Empress, her voice was clear, even sharp. "We are delighted to attend." A lie, but none in presence was crude enough to point it out. Alistair glanced at his wife, who was still curtsying, and it was only the Maker's providence that he caught some movement from the corner of his eyes.

In one, fluid motion his hand grasped the hilt of the sword, freeing it from the scabbard. The blade sprang to life in a blue fire as he parried away a dagger that had very nearly lodged itself into the elven mage's back. There was a piercing scream as a loud clang was heard and a twang as an arrow was released from a bow somewhere in the room. The dagger fell onto the floor. Surprised and shocked, the Warden-Commander got to her feet swiftly, turning around to see who had tried to kill her; but the crowd was already pressing in, and the assassin, if he had still tarried, was now hidden behind the throng.

Alistair picked up the blade, now notched on one side from the impact of the parry. He showed it to his wife. "Antivan," he said.

She nodded in agreement, not paying attention to the reigning monarch of Orlais or her subjects. "Crows," she said, tracing the flying bird on the hilt of the blade. "Did anyone see who did it?"

"I did," said a man's voice. "I killed him."

The two turned to see a man, a bit older than they, walking up toward the throne with a dead body dragging behind him. Several women screamed at the body with the arrow protruding from its forehead. The man was dressed in a white armour and had a longbow on his back; he was tanned but had vividly blue eyes that almost seemed green depending on the light. His hair was chestnut brown and he had a serious countenance, as if he had known both sides of the road.

"Ah, Sebastian," said the Empress, looking at the man. The Wardens looked at each other. Who was this man? The Warden-Commander, through various connections, knew most of the nobility by face, if not by name, but she had never seen this man before. And his accent was most definitely not Orlesian. She guessed somewhere in the Free Marches, for he sounded slightly similar to Nathaniel, but that was all she could learn from the first glance.

"Sebastian Vael, Chantry brother and the prince of Starkhaven," explained the butler, who had walked up to them amidst the commotion. "Your highness, may I present the Commander of the Grey?"

Sebastian looked at the woman. So she was the Blight-queller. Her large grey eyes were alert, angry, and her mouth was drawn in a strict line; her surcoat was blue, and he could see the griffon rearing on her belt buckle. Her husband, the rumoured prince of Ferelden, stood by her side, his stance protective. His blond hair was cropped short, and his face, which seemed that it usually wore a smile, was grim. These two had stopped the Blight, had defeated the high dragon that had sat atop the ancient temple of Andraste for centuries, uncovered her ashes. The Warden-Commander alone had defeated a powerful, sentient Darkspawn, while her husband had been in Orlais, the instrumental figure in driving almost all darkspawn underground again. These two had worked tirelessly against the menace, and were formidable opponents… or formidable allies.

Alistair bent down and looked at the assassin. "Crow," he murmured.

"Who hired him? Any clues?"

Alistair kicked the man over. "No idea."

"You seem calm, Warden-Commander," Sebastian commented. The elf had a wry smile on her face.

"Two of my best friends tried to kill me when we first met, your highness." She gestured to the body. "Can we have someone carry that to the compound, please? I'd like to see what information we can glean from him."

The Wardens left right after that, parting the sea of silks with their blues. Their faces were controlled, but something told the prince that the warrior, at least, would hunt the assassin's employer down. His arm was around her shoulder as he escorted his wife out of the hall, their long blades still on their backs. Their equipment were no less than their masters; Sebastian had seen the blade flare in blue fire, almost as if it was made of sapphires. The Warden-Commander's blade seemed ornamental, but the warrior's was not.

Grey Wardens, it seemed, still lived up to their name.

The Wardens returned to the compound as soon as they could. Exhaustion overtook the mage as she pulled the surcoat off. She lay down on the bed, still in her kirtle, and hugged the pillow. "Mm."

"Tired?" Alistair was stripped from waist up; muscles visibly moved under the skin as he pulled off the shirt. He came onto the bed as well, and kissed her cheek. She cast a sharp glance at him, and inwardly groaned. Alistair's face told her that he wanted her and he wanted her right now. She wondered if she just didn't have much stamina or he just had too much of it. Probably both. She also supposed it stemmed from insecurity about her safety; he was always like this when she had a close brush with death. It was almost as if he ascertained to himself that she was alive by doing this.

"Alistair, not now. I'm tired."

He smiled. She inwardly groaned again. "But I've been very sinful as a Templar," he whispered. "I keep having these dreams about this woman. She looks all innocent, but I don't think she is. She might be a desire demon."

"Alistair…"

"My thoughts have been dirty, my soul sullied." He nuzzled her neck, knowing that she was extremely vulnerable to this kind of attack.

"What kind of thoughts?" She asked, then regretted it. Curiosity got the best of her, and someday it was going to get her killed.

"I keep smelling the soft wisterias in my dreams, and have these visions about her dark hair brushing my skin as she moves her face down my body, her hands on my chest…" Amarina narrowed her eyes. He was very eloquent when he wanted to be. So what was up with the "witch-thief!" and all those bumbling phrases that he had a habit of saying? Was it just a pretence?

Or maybe he just really had a dirty, filthy mind that had remained suppressed by the Chantry until she released it. On hindsight, maybe she should have listened to Zevran.

"I keep wanting to do things to her," he was saying.

"Do what?" Oops. She could almost hear the trap snapping and ensnaring her.

"I don't think I can explain it with words," was the devious answer. She felt his hands burrow under her skirt, gently caress the soft skin on her inner thigh. "May I show you?"

Damn. Damn, damn, damn. She noticed his hands unbuttoning and unlacing her dress, his mouth on her skin. She mentally prepared herself for a very sore morning as he kissed his way down from her neck to her collarbone and then beyond.

* * *

Alistair woke up that night to get a drink of water. He had to get up and walk to the table where the pitcher sat; he appreciated Amarina's habit to throw limes into drinking water at times like these. To avoid water going bad, she said, but he knew the reason. As a girl who grew up in the Tower, she was not used to brackish, tepid water that was sometimes the norm in this part of Orlais. Lime took care of the taste, and made the warm temperature tolerable.

Finishing the cup, he went back to bed, smiling fondly at his sleeping wife. Her hair spread out onto the pillow in an arc, and her shoulders and her arms were peeking from the duvet. She was a delicate thing, he thought; oftentimes people got awed by her titles as the Warden-Commander, the Blight-queller, the dragonslayer, but at the end of the day she was still an elf, and a very thin one at that. He kept forgetting too, and hence the light pink bruises on her arm, where he had grasped onto her without a thought. It'd turn a light purple by tomorrow morning, and then Amarina would be slightly annoyed with him, as usual.

But how could he explain that these outbursts were stemming from his fear of losing her? When he had seen that dagger flying… instinct kicked in and hence nothing drastic had happened, but it nearly froze his brain when he saw it. He had almost asked her to leave the Order once before so that he knew she was safe, but one never left the Wardens; once a Warden, always a Warden, as the saying went. And her expression when he had hinted it was so flinty that he was amazed she didn't catch on fire.

"Alistair," she said in a quiet voice, "you do realise that if I leave, then I'd never see you?" Wardens' wives very rarely got to see their husbands. A Warden, with constant moving and combat, didn't make very good husbands or wives in general. Or parents.

He had not thought of that. "Oh."

"Unless you want to spend your time with a ravishing Orlesian lady…" her voice went up an octave. Uh oh. He raised his hands pleadingly, but Amarina had continued on for a good five minutes before he had managed to calm her down.

"Mm," said the sleeping mage.

"Hm?" He responded, thinking that she might have woken up, but all she did was turn toward him. Her face told him she was still asleep.

"Mmm." She clung onto his arm like a small infant. "Mm."

And she remained that way for the rest of the night. Eventually he fell asleep again, her in his arms as always; a vestige of their adventures during the Blight, he had a habit of wrapping his arms around her as he slept, from the time when a darkspawn attack had ruined half their gear.

But he had to wonder, so he asked the next morning, over breakfast.

"What?" she said, stopping her hand that was buttering a slice of bread. "What did you just ask me?"

"What were you dreaming about last night?" Her expression told him that it was probably something very naughty. She closed her mouth with purpose.

"Well?"

"Not. Telling."

He started to laugh over his cup of coffee. "Your face told me enough." He continued to laugh as she glared at him over a bowl of strawberries. He reached over and picked one from the bowl, then plopped it into his mouth.

"Hey!" came the indignant cry. "Get your own strawberries!"

"Mmhmm." Well, at least it wasn't some nightmare again. Despite her years as being a Warden, she still hadn't quite gotten the hang of shutting out the nightmares and keeping the meaningful ones. He'd much rather have his wife have naughty dreams that, from her expression, involved him as well, than have her dream of her own deaths and monsters that lurked in the shadows and spread darkness. Those days were the glum ones, when she'd be silent, her eyes dark with apprehension.

But not today. Today she was as he had imagined she would have been, had she not been taken away to the Tower. A young woman, joy and laughter in her face. Her steps had little bounces as if she was walking in air. She smelled of wisterias, that sweet, gentle smell tracing her path through the room. She always smelled of plants, that hint of wet earth, the fresh cut green, perhaps because she worked with plants in her free time; some mages disdained from working with plants, but she wasn't one of them. She knew how important it was to know how to brew potions and salves, and she had done her share of them during her travels. Over the years she had also learned how to distill fragrances from various plants, which she wore to hide the stench and the acrid odour that darkspawn always had.

The two got together with Arturo, the former Crow, who was now the liaison between one of the guilds and the resident rogue master. The body had been carried in overnight and now lay quietly in one of the laboratories, where mages conducted their experiments in trying to tap the darkspawn Taint.

With just one glance the Antivan affirmed their suspicions: "Crow," he said.

"What guild?" The warrior asked. Arturo gently thumbed the tattoo that marked the man's forehead, a curling arabesque that snaked down to his jaw. "It's one of the more powerful ones," he replied.

Amarina pursed her lips. "It's not Zevran Arainai's, is it?"

The Dalish elf had left the Warden's company soon after she had gotten married, but the two had kept regular correspondence. Many knew of his wistful affections for the elven woman but she and her husband; growing up in seclusion had kept them blissfully ignorant of the dealings of men and women except for blunt words of love, the dance steps crude and straightforward. The couple had gotten better with the dance, but only to each others' steps. And so practically all of Antiva knew of Zevran's affections for the famed Warden, except herself.

Arturo knew, of course, but kept his mouth shut. The Antivan owed the elf his life, after Zevran had paid off the severance. "Serve her well," he had said. And indeed he had. As he was doing now.

"No," he replied. "It's not his guild." Zevran would never send her an assassin; if he saw the need to kill her, he'd come himself.

"We should contact him anyway," Alistair said. "He'd probably know who hired this man." A prod with his knife. His wife nodded, unaware of the immense pain that this would cause the guildmaster. It was funny, really; Zevran Arainai, who had bedded both men and women in his days as one of the most promising Crows, had forsworn such things after he had returned from the south, with only one woman in his heart, the woman who had saved his life when he had attempted on hers.

"I'd been cursed," he had smiled with some self-derision on his beautiful face, the night Arturo had left for Orlais. "To fall in love with a prey is not a wise idea."

The candlelight in the laboratory faltered as Arturo turned the man over. Amarina replenished the flame with a gesture, then bent over to see the man's lower back. It was criss-crossed with tattoos, just as Zevran's had been. She remembered the man's back, from the time she had accidentally trespassed on him bathing. That was a very humiliating incident, when he had smiled that sultry smile of his and asked, "Care to join me, Warden?" in a voice that dripped honey. She had fled.

But the man's tattoos were not the graceful spirals that had adorned the elf's back. They were crude mockeries of the tendrils that had marked Zevran's golden skin. The pigment was not as vibrant, either; Zevran's tattoos had been emerald green, sapphire, the colours of precious gems. This man's was faded, not from the years but from poor quality. Another testament to this man's background, that whatever rank he had held before his death, he had won it the hard way. He was no thoroughbred as Zevran had been, no; this man was no assassin bought for three gold pieces at the age of seven, trained in the deadly arts as a boy.

"Well, I think we're done here," said the elf finally. With a flick of her wrist she set the body on fire as the two men jumped back in slight panic.

"You could have warned," said the warrior. It was customary to burn the bodies to prevent demons from possessing, and the last thing the Wardens wanted was an errant animated corpse running around underground in their laboratory. His wife cast him an apologetic look.

"Sorry."

They trunged back upstairs, their slippered feet making soft noises on the carpeted floor. Arturo had to some fast talking, but in the end Amarina agreed, wearily, to let Arturo contact his former guildmaster instead. The letters, written on thick paper, smelling of violets that were used to pigment the Warden-Commander's ink, would only hold sweet pain for the elf. Amarina didn't seem to care to know why Arturo had insisted; she had just walked down the hallway, leaving him rooted on the spot, trailing the faint smell of wisterias.

Arturo returned to his room, seated himself at the desk, and picked up a quill. He didn't know how to start, so he started off bluntly. Zevran might be anywhere in Thedas, but the Crows had connections. He informed the guildmaster that an assassination attempt had been made on the Warden-Commander, and she had made it out alive and unscathed. That the assassin was a Crow. And that the Wardens were searching for the employer.

Arturo imagined Zevran's fury when he read the letter. He'd tear Antiva apart to find the answer to her questions. The Commander of the Grey had formidable allies. Interestingly enough, none had been bought; they had become her friends through blood, tears, and her offerings of life.

Her life.

He vaguely wondered what the Warden-Commander was doing right then. Perhaps in the loving embrace of her husband, or in her office, or perhaps sparring. Either way, he needed to get the message out by sunset. He wrote in a period at the end of the sentence, and then sprinkled sand onto the ink, wondering what would have happened if his former guildmaster had been chosen instead.

* * *

Across the compound, in a room outfitted to receive wealthy donors and guests, the said Warden-Commander was absently touching the silver rim of a porcelain cup as she sat across the table, facing the Starkhaven Prince. Sebastian, his name was, Sebastian Vael, and he had the countenance of a man who had seen both darkness and light. But his harrowing had not been as grim as hers had been, or Cullen's, or any of her companions'; she knew when she saw the scar the darkness left behind, and she saw it everywhere, in her husband's golden eyes, in Gaspard's sky blue, in Zevran's brown, in Morrigan's amber. It left scars of varying shades and degrees, but Sebastian's turquoise eyes weren't as dark as her husband's, or Zevran's. No, this man had not been tested as they had been; yet who were, but the Wardens?

"I seek an alliance," he had said, as she offered hot cup of tisane. Honeybush, rosebuds, and pieces of orange peel floated in the hot water as she poured the beverage through a strainer into a cup. "I must reclaim my city-state."

"Why come to us, your highness?" She asked as she pushed the saucer forward, cup perched on it like some bird. "We are no sovereigns, and I certainly hold no jurisdiction or any power to help you to your throne. I am just a Warden."

Sebastian shook his head. "Not just a Warden, no, my lady. You are The Warden."

Amarina nearly sighed. That name had haunted her like a bad stench, as if no other Grey Wardens existed in Thedas. But so many men and women carried forth their duties that could not be forsworn, had sacrificed, trusting that they would not be in vain and that their work, their legacy shall be carried forth. It was like a torch, their mission; when one fell, another would pick up, and walk on. But people behaved as if there was no other Warden in Thedas, as if all the deeds had been hers.

Ridiculous.

"Still, I do not speak for my Order. The First Warden does." The First Warden, who was too embroiled in Anderfels politics. Where was Alistair when she needed him? She knew of the whispers that Alistair was actually the one controlling the Orlesian branch of the order, that he had traded the Fereldan throne for the Warden one, that she, Amarina, was weak, not suited for the role. She did not care. Alistair was her beacon, the chink in her armour that made her invincible. And if they wanted to talk, well, what harm would that do? He didn't give a damn about reputation - one learned not to care about such things as a royal bastard - and neither did she. She would have gladly stepped down if someone had offered her that luxury. Unfortunately, no one did.

Well, except for her husband. He had always said that she could step down, live as a normal woman, which always made her reexamine her just how much she could carry. On the eve before the Battle of Denerim he had offered her to "run away to Orlais, eat pastries and live in sin", and now that they had done that, he had said to her that they could run off to Antiva or wherever she wished when things seemed almost hopeless. And because of that, she could smile, believe that she could walk a bit further.

"But would I have your support? You, personally?" asked the prince. She thought of her punishment for meddling in politics. That had not been pleasant. She thought about how to frame the answer.

"I can give you my personal support, but as a Warden-Commander, I'm afraid I cannot," she replied. She realised much to her chagrin that Alistair had _not_ found all the powdered sugar that had managed to make its way to the nook and cranny of her body as he had claimed; there had been a terrible fiasco when they had made their way out through the kitchen, when one of the cooks, startled by two armed people storming into the territory, had accidentally knocked over a canister of powdered sugar as Amarina was running through. Alistair had found some creative ways to get the sugar off that had made its way down the kirtle her body, but evidently he hadn't been thorough enough. She felt the grit of it on her back.

"That would suffice," nodded the man. How, she had no idea. People respected her as the "Warden-Commander", not as herself. It was her capability as a Warden that people saw, as a mage. He stood up. "Thank you for your time, Commander of the Grey."

She nodded. There was no smile on her face. She had other things to consider, other things that needed her attention. Like this next visitor.

Amarina usually put aside a few hours, twice a week, to see people who came to speak to her. Some needed help, some demanded adjustment; there were empress's messengers, peasants, merchants, all sorts of people from all walks of lives. Being notorious did have its merits, but it also attracted unwanted attention. Like this man.

Sorely wishing again that Alistair was here - he had all but disappeared, telling her that he needed to go oversee a training session - and sighing, she faced her new adversary. This man was almost a gibbering idiot. This man was also her "admirer", as Levian had called him with distaste. Amarina had to agree. There wasn't any other term to describe the man.

The man, by the name of Jedediah, had first set his dark eyes on her when she had been at one of the functions as the Commander of the Grey. Almost everyone in Thedas had heard of her, but she kept most at bay, hiding in shadows whenever she could and keeping an impassive face when she could not. As the result, the Warden-Commander was known as "unreadable", if not "downright cold". Some sashayed up to her to be able to tell others that they had talked to her and were close to her, but both parties knew that it was not for her company per se, but rather for the prestige. As the result, she had been blissfully left alone with her friends and companions.

Jedediah, however, seemed to know no personal space. He asked after her, even made his way into the compound once, before one of the rogue initiates found him and chased him away. And intentionally or not, this man was obtuse if nothing else. No biting remark set him off, and no refusal ever got through his thick skull. Crass and clearly uneducated, his language seemed to obey no known syntax, and that drove Amarina mad. He called himself a warrior, but had no sinews or the iron-hard look Alistair had, and he said he had wooed women but there was nothing to be seen that may have swayed even the most depraved of women. All in all, the man was like a very loud mosquito, and Amarina had a few occasions in which she just wanted to slap the man hard across the face. She did not; she had a feeling he might think it an honour.

"Commander of the Grey," the man wheezed.

Amarina stifled another sigh. She almost wished she was back in Ferelden as a nameless Warden mage. The Blight had ended years ago, the last rabbles of darkspawn vanquished and chased back into the Deep Roads, but there were many, many things that required her full attention. The Wardens' presence in Ferelden was beginning to be accepted, but the trust was still tenuous at best, and the current Warden-Commander of Ferelden much relied on her to cement the fragile trust. There were a few entrances to the Deep Roads, one just in the outskirts of Val Royeaux, that had to be constantly patrolled and guarded. New Wardens had to be sought out and trained, and then there were the elder Wardens who left for their Calling. The Wardens' stronghold always had a bustle of activity, and for some reason, she always seemed to be right in the centre of it.

The following fifteen minutes were the most painful in the day, and as the man tottered out, her husband came in, a frown on his face. "Why do you talk to that man?" he asked a little gruffly.

"I don't."

"If you don't pay attention to him, he'll go away." Alistair sat down in the chair. "He stalks you. Ignore him."

Amarina raised an eyebrow. "Do you think I'm a child? Be honest."

"No. What makes you say that?"

"Well, because it seems like you think me a child speaking against her betters. I use that term because of the set phrase, not because I do or do not think you are better."

But her explanation evidently did not get through to him. "I do not think I'm your better, and neither should you," he said defensively.

"No? Because 'Ignore him' is something a parent may say to a child. 'You should ignore him' is something that one might say to an equal."

Things went rapidly downhill after that. In anger, Amarina flounced off, retorting that she was in no state to argue with him right then and it'd be better if she'd just leave.

"No, don't bother," he said, "I'll leave." But Amarina had already beaten him to it; she was marching out the door, her face tense and her hands jammed in her pockets like a small boy, smell of wisterias trailing behind her like a faint reminder. With a slam of a door and the pat of the heel of her slippers, she was gone.

* * *

That evening, Alistair lay in bed, but Amarina did not come. He sighed. She was the love of his life, and he'd willingly lay down his life for her any minute of the day, but at times she could be obstinate. Sometimes apologising came difficultly for her. She needed time to calm down, to logic herself, for she refused any other to do it for her. If there was one thing she hated, it was someone showing the logic - and her err of it - to her before she could reconcile it herself.

He got out of bed, wincing at the cold air that attacked his skin, shrugged on a robe, and left the room, candle in his hand. He knew exactly where she was, and he figured she'd have calmed down by now. It was likely that she just needed a little encouragement to apologise. She often simulated many situations in her head, but when it came to apology those simulations stood in her way. He had asked about it once, and she had replied that most simulations were about her being rejected after making an apology.

He left the suite, crossed the compound, and into the Mages' Tower. It was not as tall as the White Spire, but it was airier, perhaps because there were no Templars about with their gleaming blades and stern eyes. Although all rooms could be sealed by a Warden mage, he found his way unbarred by the doors. He continued climbing up the spiralling stairs that ran through the centre of the tower. The tower itself was constructed with the spiralling staircase going down the centre, and rooms were sequestered by walls that made each room in a shape not unlike a pie with the middle cut out. The top floor was the observatory, from where one could get onto the roof, if one so wished. He guessed Amarina was going to be there, looking at the stars, as she always did when she needed time for herself or to think.

He walked through the observatory and up the ladders that led up to the trapdoor to the roof. He blew out the candle and left it on the floor, but the sky was clear and the moon was a huge disk in the sea of dark blue, the stars twinkling and shedding their light onto the city below. Amarina was sitting a little away from the exit, hugging her knees and looking up. She looked toward him when he walked toward her. The roof itself had a slant, but it was not steep enough to warrant any particular care.

She said nothing as he sat next to her. They continued to watch the stars for a few minutes in uncomfortable silence, until Alistair heard a mumbled "sorry". She looked vulnerable as she said it, her pale face looking more pale - and wan - under the moonlight. She was tired, Alistair realised. Not the satisfying kind that sank through the muscles after a long day, but a more lasting kind, coming from years of fraying nerves and work. And she had been working for the past six years nonstop, keeping the darkspawn at bay, taking care that no disciples would cause havoc. Most reports had been false, but there were far too many that were true, and Amarina had to take care of them all. The only time she had been free from her Warden duties was right after the Blight. Freed from obligations, the two had enjoyed the six months doing nothing productive. The nights together, the whispers at dawn, time shared with friends… it had given then the glimpse of the time they had traded to service the homeland. They had lived as any other lovers might have, joy in each other's company, sighs of pleasure in each other's arms. That had been the happiest time of his life.

But her hair was still dark with no touch of frost on them. Alistair thought vaguely that she might not have any when they went to the Calling. He himself had a few strands of silver hair now, almost invisible with his cropped hair and blond besides, but he was well aware that their times were short, like a burst of a flame. That was the fate dealt out for this choice. Old age will not claim them.

He gathered her into his arms to show that he accepted her apology. She leaned her head against his shoulder, her breaths quiet and steady. He smelled the tang of lyrium about her, that slightly acrid, mineral smell hitting his nose with her own fragrance. She had used magic, not something minor but something that required a potion or dust. Vigilance lay naked beside her. What had she been doing?

"What have you been doing?" he asked.

"There was a genlock sorcerer who was possessed by a demon," she replied. "I had to go stop it."

"And you didn't tell me?"

"I'm sorry," she said again, and she truly looked apologetic. "It was in the Mage Tower."

"What? Here?"

She nodded. "In the basement." The laboratories. The mage Wardens began to conduct experiments after Amarina had lent her copies of Avernus' research - or part of it - to the mages. Amarina personally did not do any of them, as she did not have the time and she said she didn't have enough analytical mind or patience to repeat the same steps over and over again.

"They locked the genlock in the laboratory," she explained. "I had to go in, and I had to kill it." She made it sound like getting rid of vermin, but the strong tang of lyrium told him otherwise; she had duelled the thing, duelled it with spells and her sword. It had not been deadly - she did not bear much injury - but it had sapped her of her strength. Lyrium potions always gave her bursts of power but she always used it when she was severely pressed. All who had dealt with mages had seen the aftereffects of lyrium addiction. To say it was unpleasant was like saying darkspawn were dangerous. She must have been drained of mana before she could kill the sorcerer.

But why was such a powerful genlock in the basement?

"You're wondering how the genlock ended up in the laboratory," Amarina said absently, twirling her hair. Alistair looked at her again, startled. He nodded.

"He was captured," she said simply with a shrug. "Blindfolded and bound mages don't do much."

Well, that solved the mystery.

"It's odd, though," she continued, which pulled him away from his reverie. "There are more raids in a week than there used to be in a month. Something's Calling them… but what?"

"Another Blight?" Alistair sincerely hoped not.

"Have you had dreams?"

He shook his head. "Just the usual. Nothing profound."

"Neither have I," she replied. "I don't think it's another Blight." What she meant was that she hoped it wasn't. They both knew that they were just lucky when they had stopped the Blight; but nothing guaranteed them that they'd be lucky again. With the increasingly tense situation between the mages and the Templars in Kirkwall, Ferelden still trying to hold Orlais at bay while trying to recuperate, Thedas was in no state to face another large-scale attack. She picked her sword up, doubt on her face, balancing it on her knees. Alistair looked at it. The blade was magnificent, with golden hilt shaped like a dragon and a silver gleaming blade. The flowing script running down the blade gleamed in the moonlight.

"I am Vigilance, and I keep the vigil eternal," the inscription said. On the back of the blade, "Dragon's life had forged me, and the Commander of the Grey wields me".

The increasing raids, the genlock sorcerer freeing itself, the assassination attack… they all pointed to trouble. This only meant one thing. The two better get on the road, and quickly, to find out what exactly was so important that Weisshaupt felt the need to summon the Commander of the Grey to relay the missive personally, not via a written message. The two looked at each other; they knew exactly what they were thinking.

"When can we leave?" Alistair asked.

"I don't know yet. There had been cases like this, and I've sent letters to the Fereldan Circle, The Vigil and Minrathous branch to look for anything that might have something to do with this… problem. Minrathous and The Vigil hasn't found anything, but Irving hasn't responded yet."

"Will he respond soon?" Alistair enquired about the man who was, for all intents and purposes, his wife's father. First Enchanter Irving had been present at their wedding, and had given away his beloved apprentice to the Templar-turned-Warden with his blessing. Much of her logical thinking and her control had come from him. Amarina's own father was dead long before Alistair had met her; widowed, her mother had raised three children in poverty, working late hours to feed the three elven children. Amarina had, in part, gone to the Circle to relieve her mother of the burden. Arith Surana had been a gentle father, Amarina had said, but she barely remembered him.

"That depends." She recalled the tall, vaulted library of the Tower, rebuilt after it had turned into a mess with Uldred's debacle. "I'm taking the delay as a sign that he must have found something." Or one of the apprentices. She knew most of the grunt work had always fallen to the students; she had done her share in her youth.

The letter indeed arrive a week later, written on fine parchment and stamped with Irving's signet. Amarina was in the library trying to locate a spell when one of the junior Warden mages came in, holding the letter. She thanked the mage then sent her on her way, then hurried to her office. She needed peace and quiet and familiarity to read his letter. The seal was in silver, the motif of Kinloch Hold engraved into the wax. She gently touched the wax, remembering the signet on her master's finger. She then broke it, and began to read.

"Warden-Commander," the letter began. "It relieves me to find you well, my child, for it has been years since I last beheld you. No doubt your duties behold you now, but it seems to me that it was only yesterday when Duncan had taken you away.

I have enclosed the copies of the documents that we have found in our library. I'm afraid we cannot provide more help.

May the Maker watch over you, child."

Amarina sighed as she picked up the handwritten papers. They weren't much; she berated herself for expecting more. She began to read the snippets, the memorandum that had been written centuries before, trying to decipher the meanings. Most of them were incoherent or parts of correspondence that clearly needed context for it to have any significance, but she read on, quill in hand.

She read through them thrice, making notes, thinking. If these were true, they made sense. She knew where to go to learn more. The problem wasn't the knowledge. It was the location.

She had never expected to return there. That place was forever sealed within her memory, cursed and twice cursed. She had returned there once to fulfil an obligation, and had sworn never to return. It retained too many memories and too many dead.

Could she? Could she return there? Could she control her rage, her grief, all the emotions in between, standing on the soil that had sucked up all the blood? The place was probably cursed, the Veil thin. It had been a glorious day that day, the air clear and crisp, the pennants dancing in the wind, the sky cloudless and blue. The soldiers had been sure of the battle and the victory.

She had been young then, untested and unwary. She had not questioned the outcome of the battle, nor had she witnessed any betrayal on that scale. She had never felt the cold, stark fear sit in her stomach. Untested, young and ignorant, she had wished to join the battle. To 'do her part'. It was only the wisdom of the elders that she had survived that nightmare. And even then, just barely.

"What's troubling you?" said Alistair, who had been watching his wife from the doorway from some time now. Her expression was troubled, and for the past fifteen minutes she had sighed, scratched her head, groaned, covered her face with her hands, scrunched her eyes shut. Her face was generally impassive, but when she thought no one was looking, her expression changed like a mountain weather. He had no idea what was going on, but evidently it was not good.

She nearly jumped and fell out of the chair in surprise. "A, Alistair! Don't do that!"

"Do what?"

"Can't you knock?"

"I suppose I can." His impish grin told her that he won't. He'll just take her by surprise again. "You have a guest, by the way."

"Who?"

"Zevran."

"He got the message already?" She exclaimed, puzzled. Arturo had sent that yesterday. How come he was here already? Then it struck her that maybe he was here without any message, that perhaps he just happened to be in Orlais and remembered that he had friends here. Zevran travelled a lot; that would not be impossible. "Where is he?"

"Behind me," said her husband with a wide grin. Years had erased the initial doubt and animosity the warrior had against the assassin; Zevran had proven his loyalty time and time again, enough times that he could easily leave the man with his wife and not worry about it. He stepped aside to let the elf in.

Zevran had not changed much. His hair was slightly darker, indicating that he had not been near Antiva for a while; but his face was still beautiful, his eyes still mischievous. He wore a finely crafted elven armour, and it was clear that he had taken care of it well all this time. Twin blades were on his back. "I see you haven't changed," she said with a smile.

"Oh, I have. Not in ways you can see though, my dear Warden." He still called her that, much to Alistair's chagrin. "What message?"

"I'd rather not talk about it here. We'll go get Arturo, then head out to our suite. Alistair, where is he?"

The man stared at her. "How would I know?"

"You're right. My mistake for asking." She stood up, stretching. "Come on. Let's go find him."

Arturo was in the courtyard; he was facing away from the approaching party, but he immediately stood up as soon as they were within earshot. "Warden-Commander," he said politely, as always, but with just a hint of impetuousness; then his eyes widened at the guest. "Guildmaster."

"Don't call me that," Zevran replied in good humour. "I am no guildmaster."

Alistair snorted. "That's not what I hear."

Zevran ignored his jibes. "The Warden-Commander won't tell me her big secret without you there," he explained to the baffled Antivan. "So help me sate my curiosity."

Arturo's expression darked a little; the Wardens noticed it right away, but if Zevran did, he did not show it. "And where would you like to talk, Warden-Commander?"

"Somewhere with… privacy," she said. "It won't do if people knew that an Antivan Crow made an attempt on my life."

Zevran's smile disappeared faster than anyone could say ah. "The Crows did what?"

Amarina gave him a steady look. "Not here." The four began to walk toward the Warden-Commander's suite, given to her not because she was in command of the Wardens but because she was married. Alistair and Amarina had initially tried to live in a single room together, and quickly discovered that their patience quickly frayed when they were cramped into a single room all the time.

The suite was simply furnished, but Zevran saw a woman's touch here and there: a vase full of flowers, white curtains on the windows. The white casablanca lilies lent a sweet perfume in the air. The tea was foreign to him; Antivans mostly drank strong coffee, but the tea made from dried fruits tasted rather good.

It had been almost four years since they had last met, but neither Warden had changed, Zevran noted. The last time had been in Denerim, celebrating their wedding; he had been Alistair's best man, and had calmed the nervous Warden as he swore an oath to "love and protect" the slender elf. Amarina had looked the same then, dressed in a white gown and a veil, throat decorated with white jasper and sapphire; jasper for gentleness, sapphire for faith. Alistair had been in his Warden armour, stowed away when they had been bounty heads and taken out after the Battle of Denerim. The necklace had belonged to Leliana's mother, and the redheaded bard had happily lent it to her friend on her happy day: "Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue, with six-bit in your shoe," as the rhyme went, and the necklace had taken care of old, borrowed and blue. It had been a happy event for everyone as Irving had given away his beloved apprentice in front of the Grand Cleric.

But now the couple looked grim. "We went up to the palace for Opalia," Alistair broke the silence. "Someone tried to assassinate her."

Zevran looked at the elf in question, who was calmly sipping tea. "And?"

She pulled out a dagger from her belt, golden crow flying on the crossguard, along with a jade ring. "Does this look familiar?"

Zevran picked the blade up from the table; he tucked a loose strand of blond hair behind his ear. "It's a Crow dagger," he said. "I can probably identify the guild if there was a body, but…"

"I have a sketch," Arturo offered. "I'll go get it." Without waiting for response, the Antivan left in a hurry.

"So," said the Warden-Commander. "How have you been?"

"Fine." A volume of messages were exchanged between the three, wordless, so much meant in a glance. The three knew each other well enough to converse somewhat with just eye contact; they had survived through many battles like that.

Alistair looked at the man who may just have been his wife's husband, if something had taken a different path. If he had said a different word at different time. Zevran's eyes were unusually dark and troubled as he gazed upon the Warden-Commander, who was vaguely staring into the teacup. He knew something, Alistair thought. He knew something about her that he did not.

"You didn't come here to visit, did you?" Alistair broke the heavy silence. Amarina looked up, startled, but Zevran showed no sign of being caught unawares. He nodded.

"The situation between the mages and the Templars in Kirkwall finally broke," he said.

"Broke? What do you mean, broke?"

"The Knight-Commander of Kirkwall finally decided that all mages were maleficar," Zevran explained. "The apostate, Anders…"

"Wait, Anders?" Amarina interrupted. "Anders? Blond? Tall? Sort of looks like Alistair about the nose? Obsessed with cats?"

"I… don't know about the cat thing, but yes, that seems to be the one."

Amarina and Alistair looked at each other. They both knew Anders quite well; he had been Amarina's subordinate and a trusted friend during her time in Amaranthine when she had served as a Warden-Commander of Ferelden, and had actually come to their wedding in Denerim. He had been a wry but an easy-going mage then, certainly with grudges against the Chantry and the Templars but not to the extent to do anything drastic. So what was going on?

"Anders blew up the Kirkwall Chantry."

"Wait, WHAT?" Alistair yelped. "Zevran, if that was meant as a joke, it's not funny."

"I did not mean it as a joke, my friend." He looked at the two horror-stricken faces. "The Circle retaliated."

Amarina groaned. She knew just how much power the mages wielded, and how much force the Templars could use. Alistair looked shocked. They had stood on the opposing sides once, as a mage apprentice and a Templar-in-training; they knew exactly what would happen if the fragile balance between the mages and the Templars crashed.

"… And?" Amarina asked fearfully.

"The Champion of Kirkwall - Hawke, I think his name was - sided with the mages. The Knight-Commander was defeated, but…" Zevran looked at the Warden-Commander. "Kirkwall Circle's gone."

She paled. "Starkhaven, then Kirkwall…" she whispered. "We need to…"

The door opened, and Arturo came back in, clutching a sheaf of parchment. "I kept a copy of the sketch," he explained as he sat back down. "It's not as good as the one I sent you, master, but it should suffice."

Zevran's attention immediately went to the sketch, which signalled the Fereldan Wardens that the discussion regarding the Kirkwall circle was definitely over. Alistair glanced at his wife; her brows were furrowed and she looked worried, her eyes dark. He wondered what was going on in her mind, but decided not to ask. She would need time.

If they had time.


	5. Departure I

AN: Many thanks to those who trudged through the loooooong chapter previous. A lot of your feedbacks give me ideas, and this particular fiction's ideas come in fits and spurts.

lost. long. ago - I'm still not sure how I'll break this up. When viewed as pdf or Kindle the chopped up format's fine, but FFN is very unsupporting of that kind of read, and I know how difficult it is to read a wall of text. I'm breaking up the chapters on here to the sections, and I'll see how that turns out.

Isolationistmagi - the reason I decided to use "Warden-Commander" is simply because in the game, they're always referred to as "The Warden" like that's the name. I understand that it's a gaming contrivance, but I rather liked my Warden being called "The Warden" when in public, and so I kept it. That, and I think it shows when she's acting as a Warden and when she's acting as herself. Glad you like it.

Other readers hiding in the shadows: click the big, blue button that says "REVIEW THIS CHAPTER". I'll give you a cookie with Sten's face on it. No?

**Departure**

Zevran left that night, despite the Wardens' offer to put him up. He had someone to meet, he said, and the hour of meeting was quickly approaching. Neither Amarina nor Alistair probed. Zevran was an assassin, after all, and they both sensed the less they knew about his business, the better. Due to his profession, death and blood trailed around the cheerful Dalish like a bad reputation.

After some cajoling, he did stay for dinner. Zevran was a good source of information, and was a cheerful companion. After the assassination attempt and the growing number of raids that plagued the Warden-Commander, she could use some laughs. For an hour or two, they returned to the time when they would simply surround a campfire and eat the game of the day. Memories came back in full force, and they recounted the tales of their past, asked if he had any updates on their friends. Oghren was still serving as a Grey Warden, he said, Felsi's child no longer a dwarven toddler. Wynne was very busy, trying to placate the aftermath of the Kirkwall Rebellion; Nathaniel Howe was still at The Vigil, but he was a Senior Warden now, and was leading many of the expeditions. It amazed Arturo just how many friends this couple had, and allies too, from the commonest of the commoners to kings and princes.

"And how's Anora?" Amarina asked as if she was discussing a baker's wife, not the queen of Ferelden.

"Fine, I guess. Ferelden isn't exactly at peace with Orlais, so she has trouble with that."

Alistair made a face. "So glad I didn't become a king. I wouldn't have known what to do."

"Oh, someone would have given you advice. Pass the butter dish, please."

Zevran handed over the porcelain to the woman. "Don't regret it at all, Senior Warden? At all?" he asked from across the table.

"What? No." Alistair bit into the sliced meat. "I like being a Warden, you know. Besides, can you imagine what would happen to Amarina and me if I was a king? There's the problem of heir to the throne, and her being an elf and a mage-"

Amarina coughed delicately.

"-sorry, dear, but you know how things are. They'll probably try to marry me off to some bann's daughter instead. And I think my beloved wife would mind being called a concubine or worse, if we were to continue the relationship with me as a king."

"The beloved wife would."

When the dinner finished, Zevran announced that it was time for him to go. The two Fereldans accompanied him to the stables, where his mount had been attended to, fed, cleaned, and was now trying to attract the attention of a mare from several stable stalls beyond.

"That thing's a stallion!" Alistair exclaimed. "How does he not go crazy with every other horse he passes?"

"I think he takes after me," Zevran replied smoothly. "Every female should be wooed."

"There's your answer. He does go crazy. His owner just doesn't mind."

Amarina and Zevran kissed each other on the cheek, made promises to keep in touch; Alistair clapped the man on the back fondly, and thanked him for all the help. Then Zevran rode away into the sunset on a fresh horse, heading west. The Wardens watched him ride off, smiles on their faces. All three of them knew just how dire the situation was; there was no reason to make it seem even worse by making frowns and worried noises.

"What were you frowning about?" Alistair asked as they waved their friend goodbye.

"Hm?"

"You were frowning and making faces when I brought Zevran in. What were you frowning and squinting at?"

"Oh." She shrugged. She had quite a few things on her mind, not in the least the Starkhaven prince's request and her own discovery. Why did Sebastian come to her anyway? What was he getting at? Why her? And what was in that cursed place? Questions that required answers. Questions that she could not answer, not without more information. She felt as if she was in a ditch; she hated it.

And not to mention Anders… another cause of headache to be added to her evergrowing list. She wondered where the mage had gone wrong. In the Amaranthine days, the apostate had been cheerful, if wry, with fondness for cats, always taking insults with a stride and a witty comeback. She never would have believed him to do such a thing. It just didn't seem like him.

She cast a furtive glance at her husband. Alistair was looking into the distance. A true Fereldan, he was; she mused that had fate played the game of dice differently, he would have been the golden king of Ferelden. His blond hair was tousled in the slight breeze, and his golden eyes looked pensive, but there was always a hint of humour within their depths. His heraldry, the griffon with the red rose, suited him well, just as it would not for her. Her golden knight.

"Amarina?" Alistair's voice brought her back from her daydreams. She shook her head, trying to come to terms with her choice. Alistair would never know the warm hearth and his children's voices echoing through his house; he would not come back to a smiling woman with a pot of stew over the fire after a long day. And he'd never know that darkness within her, that ugly jealousy over the woman he hated. He knew the inside of her so well, but sometimes he seemed to not know her at all. She suddenly hugged him, taking him by surprise. He felt her kiss his neckline, and wondered what was on her mind so much that she had given into sudden displays of affection. She wasn't very prone to these kind of things; control was her premiere feature, but now, as he wrapped his arms around her back, he knew that she feared something, and was trying to overcome the fear to make the correct decision.

"We have a choice to make," she said quietly, looking up; the sunset dyed her face crimson, as if she was washed with blood. "We can either go to Anderfels first, or return to Ostagar."

Alistair jerked and looked at her. She refused to meet his eyes. Like the cold wind that blew across Lake Calenhad, her eyes were fixed on the distance like grey moonstones that mages liked to use, her expression cold and set. Yes, that was it; she was like the cold wind that blew across Calenhad. During springtime the wind was gentle, warm, caressing; during the winter time it could be brutal, even killing. But her face was illegible now, expression hard.

"Why Ostagar?" He asked slowly.

"The Tower of Ishal and the Warden Archives," she replied. "Shall we go in? It's getting windy."

As soon as they got back in, Amarina went to find the others. Gaspard was in his room, nursing a glass of wine, and Levian was on the roof. Gelsomina, predictably, was with a man in bed.

"Get some clothes on and come with me," Amarina said coolly.

"Can't you see I'm occupied?"

"No." The Warden-Commander crossed her arms. "Time's a wasting. Come on, now."

If glares could kill, Amarina would have been already thrice dead. Thankfully, she was very oblivious to those kind of things. She waited impatiently for the junior Warden to throw on some clothes, and then hurried her down the corridor to the conference chamber. The men looked slightly shocked at the scantily clad mage, but said nothing.

Gelsomina looked around. There was Gaspard de Soliere, the duke's son, his cheeks rosy, probably from the wine; his sky blue eyes seemed a little unsteady and his golden hair was bound loosely at the nape of the neck, an errant strand falling onto the shoulder. Next to him was Levian Rahndael, the Dalish rogue. His _vallaslin_ was brown against his golden skin, his brown hair framing his face like wisps of brown feathers, soft and thick. Alistair Theirin sat on the opposite side, his blond hair cropped short, his golden eyes full of warmth. A ring sat on his left hand, a simple band of silverite with leaves entwined around the band.

"So, gentlemen," Amarina said crisply, "We have a few things to discuss." She did not wait for Gelsomina to enter, but rather simply went in and sat down. "First things first."

"I heard from Alistair that we need to go to Ostagar," Gaspard said. "Is that true?"

"It's an option, yes." She laid out scraps of paper in front of them. Gelsomina sat down, unwilling to be part of this group, but aware that she had no choice.

"Something like this has happened before, but it died off quite spontaneously," the Warden-Commander explained. "It has happened twice before, but unfortunately all the records were moved to the Warden Archives in the Korcari Wilds. Now, for some reason part of the records were moved deep within the vault in the Tower of Ishal, which is in Ostagar." She unfurled a map; daggers were placed on the corners. "We know that the Warden Outpost in Korcari Wilds is probably empty. Alistair and I were there eight years ago, and it was in ruins. But…" she pointed at a small symbol to the north. "We went into the Tower of Ishal twice, and we never explored it fully. When we arrived to light the beacon, it was already a grand mess, and the mess was even worse when we returned to reclaim Cailan's regalia.

So, we have two choices. Head out to Anderfels, or check Ostagar out first. As I haven't received a directive to arrive by a certain time, what I was thinking is to head to Ferelden, then turn back and head to Anderfels."

"That's a good plan," Gaspard commented. "If we head out to Anderfels now, we're going to get snowed in in the mountain ranges. Not to mention Andoral's Reach is rather treacherous during autumn season because of heavy rain. We should wait out in Ferelden then head out while it's still winter so that we'll arrive in Anderfels in Spring."

Amarina pulled the almanac toward her. The tome was huge, bound in brown leather, with letters embossed in gold stamped on the front; first written by the Tevinters, it cited the local weather, landmarks, currencies, and much more on all of Thedas. As Wardens had to go from place to place on missions, they found the almanac almost indispensable. She opened the book to the section on Anderfels. "Weather," she read out loud. "Verimensis: heavy snow, treacherous in the mountains, avalanches and heavy snowfall common. Travel not recommended." She pointed at the map again. "Even if we do use the Imperial Highway, we'd have to head out toward Tevinter Imperium first, then strike west from Val Dorma. Or we can cross into Andoral's Reach, go along the Hunterhorn Mountains."

"Either way, it's a long journey." Gaspard commented.

The Warden-Commander nodded slowly. "We must decide our course," she said. "I've given you the pros and cons. Alistair?"

The blond man shrugged; Gelsomina could see his muscles move under the fine shirt. Alistair Theirin had a pleasant face, and it helped that he was athletic. And he was wedded to the Warden-Commander, perhaps one of the most powerful women in Thedas. To steal her man from right under her nose… the female in her shuddered in delight.

"Ferelden," Alistair was saying. "Although we'd probably get accosted at Denerim or Redcliffe. But still, going to Anderfels then backtracking to Ferelden would be a bigger chore."

"Lev?"

"No preference," said the Dalish, moving the brown hair away from his face. An earring dangled from his ear, a small pendant on a hook. The pendant was filigreed glass with gold, the metalwork so delicate yet so intricate that it looked like a fine web. Inside was dark liquid; his Warden's Oath. The Fereldans wore them around their necks, but what the amulet was made into differed according to regions.

"Ferelden," said Gaspard before Amarina could ask.

"Gelsomina?"

She only shrugged, keeping her eyes on the Fereldan. Yet, his eyes were on his wife, a tender expression on his face as the elven mage discussed the routes into Ferelden.

"Going from the Dead Trenches out to Orzammar would be easier… maybe," she was telling Gaspard. "Maybe. I'm not certain how much the Deep Roads are infested with Darkspawn."

"We can fight darkspawn," Alistair said. "We can't fight snow."

"True. And the weather around there's unstable." Amarina turned to the Dalish. "Where's the nearest entrance into the Deep Roads from the Orlesian side of the ranges?"

"Jader."

"Alright. We'll cross the Waking Sea, head down to Lydes, then go east to Jader, and enter the Deep Roads from there. I want to stop by the Shaperate and see if there's anything the dwarves recorded. Then we'll get to Lake Calenhad docks, stop by the Tower, head down to Redcliffe, then travel the Highway to Ostagar. How's that?"

"We can replenish some supplies too," said Gaspard. "I like it." Years of leadership had made these proceedings fairly easy for Amarina, but that, in turn, detracted from any femininity the elf seemed to possess, Gelsomina noted. She wasn't a very feminine woman to begin with, not like the Orlesian noblewomen. Her haircut was severe, her voice low, her stride too wide.

"As long as we can keep away from Denerim, I'll be happy," Alistair chimed in. "I bet Anora's still paranoid that I'll swoop down and steal the throne from under her rear end."

"Ah, of course. Swooping is bad."

The Wardens moved onto the technical details of the journey; travelling required much preparation. The discussion continued well into the night, and it was past midnight when the couple crawled into bed, not looking forward to the next morning. Now that the planning was done, they'd actually have to put the plan into action. This time, Alistair would go to the quartermaster, and Amarina to the cook.

"Tired, love?"

Amarina nodded. "I wonder where the road will take us to," she whispered. It had been years since she had done extensive travelling; ever since she had been named the Commander of the Grey of Orlais, she had been bound to Val Royeaux, giving out orders rather than carrying them out. She was not on good terms with the First Warden - she held the man in contempt, blamed him for not responding to the Blight sooner - and perhaps, because of it, Anderfels had not once summoned the most famous Warden to its white aerie.

Until now.

But Alistair was not that concerned about the upcoming journey. They had beaten all the odds, had slain ogres and terrifying monsters alike by the score. Gaspard's prowess and Levian's lightening-quick reflexes had done as much slaying as had their sword and spell. Blades and spells, they had gone through many battles without even a sweat, their concerted move seamless as if they were one big creature. He fell asleep, his wife in his arms.


	6. Departure II

The nobles of the Landsmeet were surrounding him, making a circle. Loghain was standing before him, his blue eyes cold. Amarina stood to the side, face pale, her hand gripping the staff as if she would fall over without it. Her mouth was set in a stern line, her expression - usually gentle and sweet - grim and resolved. He glanced at her. He could not fail. Not now. Not when so much was banking on this. He knew exactly why she had named him instead of Zevran or herself, and he thanked her for the chance. If he failed, if he died, she would surely be branded a traitor, tortured, and executed. He could not allow that.

Loghain drew the sword first. He drew as well, and then suddenly the duel began. Shields clashed, and he felt the blinding pain as the sword crashed into his armour. He nearly fell, but he saw her, standing, trying not to cry out, her eyes full of fear. He had to stand up, had to keep going. His entire body ached. But he could not fall. He could not waste the opportunity. He had to win this battle. Not when everything was on him; all her tears, all his friends' blood, so much sacrificed. He would not let Loghain break it. Not now…

"Alistair!"

He woke up in cold sweat; the shirt clung onto his skin, clammy, and he flailed. It was dawn, judging from the light streaming through the curtains, and Amarina was looking into his face, concern in her eyes. "Bad dream?"

"I think so," he said, sitting up.

"You were thrashing. Are you alright?"

He breathed in deeply, then exhaled, nodding. It was a dream. Loghain was dead. He gathered her into his arms. She was alive. Hailed as a hero, her body whole, and alive. They had won. Loghain had lost and had died by his hands, beheaded by his own blade. He had died a disgrace, and good riddance.

He felt a gentle push as she coerced him to lie down. Her body was on top, and he felt her caress his forehead gently, smelled the clean air. He closed his eyes, allowed her to gently touch his face, her hands cool and soothing. Her fingertips gently traced a line down his cheek.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he heard her ask. He thought for a moment, then decided to speak of it, hoping that it might perhaps banish the demon from his head. There was nothing for her to be surprised about, anyway.

"I was at the Landsmeet," he began. "You named me your champion, and I was facing Loghain." He swallowed. "We were fighting, and I kept thinking, I can't go down, I can't lose, I can't fail, not when everything's riding on me."

"Some nightmares don't die," she whispered. And he knew that; Amarina had her share of terrible experiences, starting with her Harrowing. She had learned to disregard it over the years, but there were times when she'd wake up and cling onto him in terror. The times after going into the Deep Roads for the first time had been even more difficult; Amarina was terrified of broodmothers, and for a month or two she had woken up screaming, horrified, until someone came over to calm her down. She still had dreams of the terrible female ghouls and their tortured existence, and had sometimes woken up, eyes wide with fear, and had clung onto him, trembling. That always woke him up, but he never complained; he would always wrap his arms around her, whisper words into her ear, that she was safe and sound and he would never let that happen to her. And he meant it with all his heart. He would slay her before the darkspawn would carry her off; he loved her too much to let that happen. "Some memories just won't go away."

"I know." But it was just a dream. Just that. A dream. It was not reality. He sighed, this time from happiness that his dream was not a reality. He fell asleep again, aware that Amarina was watching him, his hand grasping hers. Her hands were beacons of comfort, the reassurance that he had been successful. Just as he was her missing piece, so was she his. In moments of vulnerability, her existence soothed his mind like a balm.

The following morning was filled with flurry of activities. Supplies had to be gathered, horses had to be selected, and all in all, the Wardens were seen running around the compound, trying to get everything sorted at once before they started off the next day.

Alistair was just about to head to the quartermaster after to engage in an epic battle over gathering equipment when he passed by the kitchen and heard his wife's voice. She had gone over to ask the cook to pack some provisions on the road. He listened in, amused, as Amarina sat in the large kitchen and discussed the journey with the head cook. The head cook was a woman in mid-fifties and had a round, cheerful face and arms as thick as the loaves she baked. She treated most of the Wardens as if they were her children, and perhaps it was with good reason; her son had been a Warden, slain by the darkspawn when The Vigil had been attacked. She had waved away Amarina's profuse apologies when the elven mage had first come to Orlais, telling her that her son had died a hero and there had been nothing the Warden-Commander could have done. Still, Amarina was oddly obedient to the cook, perhaps because of guilt, perhaps because she was the mother the elf had never had.

"Thank you, Arizelle," Amarina was saying. "I'm so sorry, it's so sudden. I should have given you an advance notice."

"No worries, _ma cher_", the woman replied cheerfully. "I know when you have to go, you have to go. Besides, I'm not letting you take bread that some half-wit baked. Although I wish you'd stay longer. You're scrawny."

"Alistair likes me just the way I am," his wife huffed.

"Sure he does. But you can use some meat on the bones. Make sure you feed him too, you hear me? That boy doesn't eat enough."

Alistair had a hard time stifling his laughter. He had passed his thirtieth birthday, and was no boy by any means. He supposed anyone around her son's age would be a "boy" for Arizelle.

"At least you can cook," Arizelle continued. "Some of the girls have no idea how to hold a paring knife. Although you can't really match me."

"True," said Amarina. "I can't bake wastel like you. I still can't figure out how to make it as fluffy as yours."

"I'll teach you the trick, _ma cher_, when you come back." Slam of the cupboard, then Amarina turned her head, and smiled.

"Hello, husband. Eavesdropping is very bad-mannered, you know."

Alistair waved his hand, half in protest and half in panic, but all the two women did was laugh. "You treat your wife good, you hear me?" Arizelle said, still laughing. "And same goes for you, _ma fille_."

"When do I not treat Alistair well?"

"I've been hearing otherwise, at times." Amarina glared at her husband at the cook's response. "Either way, I've got the cheeses Alistair likes, and the wildberry wine. Anything else you want?"

"Gaspard would probably want the honey cured ham, and Levian said he liked the dried apples you make." She was ticking off things with her hand. "Oh, and pack some extra meat? We probably would need to trade for vegetables."

After pilfering an apple pie, Alistair left, eating the pie as he walked through the compound. The crust was fragrant with butter and melted in his mouth, and the apples were sweet and tangy all at once. He noticed the slight smell of nutmeg and realised that Arizelle had not made it; his wife had, perhaps as part of her relaxation. It pained him a little to see Amarina so happy in domesticity, but he knew that she'd never become a normal housewife. Perhaps that was the life she had wanted… but it was beyond his power to give it to her.

Or not.

The quartermaster's office was far more cluttered than Amarina's, if that was even possible. It always impressed Alistair just how Guillaume was able to find himself, let alone anything in the mess that could remotely be called an office; Amarina generally spent fifteen minutes every evening sorting papers out, and even then she was often in panic that she had lost an important correspondence, or some memorandum that she had scribbled, or the conscription reports that she needed to file away. He had once suggested her to recruit someone to organise her documents, but she replied that some of the correspondences were confidential. Alistair secretly suspected that she just didn't want anyone who wasn't close to her in her territory. She was territorial, to say the least, and it was very difficult to crack her shell. It had taken Gaspard and Levian two months for her to smile at them.

He approached the office door with a part trepidation, a part amusement. Guillaume was a gruff old man with a bent back and failing eyes whose tone threatened to bite anyone's head off if they dared to cross him. He was one of the very few people who had no qualms ordering him or the Warden-Commander around, and he called _everyone_ by their surnames, leading to mass confusion when he wrote "Theirin" in his report. Amarina had often received puzzling reports of oil rags that she did not remember ordering, and Alistair sometimes got billed for a spellbook that he had no idea how to even open. Evidently, the couple was a set in Guillaume's mind.

"Guillaume?" he called through the door. "I need to talk to you. May I come in?"

"You bloody well know you can, boy! Get in!" the old man barked. Stifling laughter and sigh all at once, Alistair opened the door and stepped in, once again at a loss without a place to stand or sit. The floor was entirely covered in receipts.

"Sit," Guillaume barked again, then interrupted Alistair's protest that he had nowhere to settle into with a "well, you can bloody move the things off the chair, Theirin! Use your brain!". Alistair did just that, then sat down on a _very_ hard chair. The chair was almost as uninviting as the room itself, not allowing the visitor to stay any longer than the visitor needed to. He reminded himself that he needed to cut the old man some slack; the Wardens had a bad habit of making impossible demands, and the man had been dealing with it for over thirty years now. Thirty years… thirty years ago he had been a year old. His wife had not been even born.

"What do you want?" the old man snapped. Alistair produced a list, written in slightly purple blue ink that smelled of violets. The man sniffed at the list, inhaling the trademark scent of the Warden-Commander's ink, ran his eyes through it then snorted.

"Ten ells of oilskin? Why would you need ten for?"

"For spare?"

"Just be careful, young man! Then you won't need ten!"

Alistair knew better. They had lost half their gear in the Deep Roads when Amarina and he had just been Grey Wardens, and the loss of gear had made everyone testy and cranky, especially when the sleeping gear had gotten soaked. Thankfully the Legion of the Dead had recently lost its number and had given them the dead dwarf's bedroll, but until then, Amarina nearly set Leliana on fire, Oghren nearly lost an arm to a hurlock, Leliana nearly sliced his head off and he himself had narrowly avoided it by stumbling over his own foot. Sleep was important. Especially with an elementalist mage. And it was far lighter to carry oilskin than extra bedrolls.

"We need ten," Alistair said stubbornly.

"Five."

"Eight."

"Fine."

While Alistair was arguing with the quartermaster, Levian was at the stables. The horses all looked at him fondly, and Levian patted some on the muzzle, feeding scraps of carrots to his favourites. They all had names and Levian could identify each and every one. Some whinnied in greeting.

"What do you want, Lev?" said the elven stablemaster.

"Horses."

"Figured that, didn't think you're here for the goats." Fionn crossed his arms across the chest. "Taking my best, as always, I suppose. How many?"

"Eight."

"Eight? What are you trying to do, empty the stables?"

Levian shrugged. The group had discussed and agreed that they needed spare; Amarina had given him coins to hand over to the stablesmaster. She knew that taking eight horses would send Fionn into panic. "Tell him he can buy ten more horses if he hands over eight of his best," she had said. "That should calm him down."

Well, it didn't, but Levian walked away with the promise of eight horses anyway. Gaspard was selling some of the cache in Amarina's vault; unknown to most, the Warden-Commander's vault was nearly overflowing with valuable trinkets that she inevitably picked up over the years. Some of them could command extremely high prices when haggled properly, and Gaspard had volunteered to go and do it himself. Finances was the least of their problems at the moment; getting the proper equipment was.

After lunch, the Wardens reconvened, packing saddlebags and getting ready for the morning. Maps were rolled in oilskins and slid into scroll cases, and Amarina's brewing kit was missing a brass spoon and that sent the mage into a panic for half an hour while she dug around trying to locate it. Whetstone, oil rag, matches, sewing kit, compass, set of knives… Gelsomina watched in amazement at the sheer amount of things needed on a journey, as the other Wardens expertly packed the gear into saddlebags.

"Isn't this too much?" she asked Alistair. Gaspard, who was wrestling with his saddlebag, looked up.

"Not at all," he said, as Alistair asked Levian if anyone had seen the tinderbox. "This is light. We're going to be on foot in the Deep Roads."

"On foot? With all this?"

"We can't bring the horses into the Deep Roads. We'll have someone at Jader send the horses back here."

"We'll be fine," said the Warden-Commander as she yanked on the drawstring of a small pouch. "We usually end up losing half our gear anyway. And we can always buy on the road. We won't stray off the road too much. Where's the tackle?"

"I think it's around here…" Levian twisted his body to look behind him. "Here's the hook and a line."

The packing continued. Money was distributed, the bulk portion going to the men; "we have wider belts," Levian explained when the junior Warden asked. Gold coins jingled into fur-lined bags. These, the men would hang them around their necks. Amarina and Gelsomina got smaller ones as well, these filled with silvers. The Warden-Commander certainly had no shortage of money.

In the end, a dozen or so saddlebags were lining one wall, and Amarina was reading off a very long list to see they had packed everything.

"Bandages?"

"Check."

"String?"

"I packed that."

"Rope?"

"Yup."

The list went on and on, and then finally, Amarina rolled the parchment with a crinkle. "I think we're set," she announced. Alistair yawned; Levian rubbed his eyes as they heard the Matin bell from the Cathedral. It was midnight. The faint, constant drone, the voices of the Chant of Light rose to a small peak as the bell tolled; they could see the faint glow from the city and the Grand Cathedral as the light illuminated the Jewel of Orlais even in the midst of the darkest hour.

One by one, the Wardens left, until Alistair was left with his wife. She was leaning out the window, looking across the city, her face a mask of an odd mix of sadness and melancholy. He rose and moved to the window, standing next to her. The wind played with her hair as she observed the city and the people she spent her life defending.

"What's wrong?" Alistair asked, ever sensitive to his wife's shimmering moods. Amarina shook her head with a shrug, and he understood; she had no words to describe what she was feeling, no way to frame it into simple arrangement of letters. But she did take his hand and grasp it, and he grasped it back, her fingers delicate and her hand small in his. The past regrets, the present regret, a sliver of fear for the future clouded Amarina's face, the constant question of what-ifs that seemed pointless in even asking; but she asked them anyway.

"Look at me," he said.

She turned her head. Lines did not mar her face yet, but weariness and grief had marked her face irrevocably. Leliana had taught her and she had sung many Utheneras, burning the dead and burying them as she was forced to move on. Her sorrow and her regret had erased that youthful joy of maidenhood, but he loved her all the more for it. She stretched out her arms and he welcomed her as she buried her face into his chest like a small child seeking comfort.

"I can't be you, love," he whispered, "but I can share your burden. Tell me."

Amarina nodded. And that was all she could give. She herself did not know what she feared, why she was suddenly taken by this inexplicable emotion of soft fear and anguish. But she felt comforted that Alistair was there like a beacon of golden light for her, always telling her that she could go on. She took a deep breath and closed the window, then followed her husband as he led her into the bedroom.


	7. Departure III

Dawn.

The Grey Wardens of Val Royeaux were lined up at the gates in full dress, confounding their Warden-Commander as the group emerged from the stables. "What's the meaning of this?" Amarina asked, baffled, as she led a black mare. The mare was already saddled and bridled, but was obedient to its mistress as the elf gently led the horse. Gaspard was behind her, ponying two horses to his bay gelding. Even as a gelding, the horse was huge, with white mark down the face and feathering on the body. Levian and Alistair followed, each ponying extra horses to their own. Amarina had paid for new horses to be bought, which greatly disturbed the peace of the stablesmaster. Levian had to do some very loud jingling of the purse to convince Fionn.

"To send you off, Commander of the Grey," said one of the mages, who were standing, staff in hand. Amarina raised an eyebrow; her blue cloak billowed in the cold wind. Gelsomina came out of the stables, leading a blue roan gelding.

"Whatever for?"

"You're our Warden-Commander," came back the simple reply.

"Very well." The elven woman hooked her foot into the stirrup, then hoisted herself up into the saddle. "Adrian!" she called sharply. "Please come here."

The Antivan hurried forward.

"While I am gone, you will be in charge," she said as she adjusted her cloak so that her blade could be wrenched free without hindrance. "If there's any trouble, send word to Jader."

Adrian nodded. Amarina pulled the reins as the horse tried to canter. "Wardens!" she cried. "The situation is fragile here. We have all heard of the Kirkwall rebellion. No doubt some of you have feelings about that." She cast a sharp glance. "But you are to remain neutral! That is my last command until I return. Is that clear?"

The Wardens chorused a yes.

"Good." She turned her horse and was about to move forward when Adrian stepped forward.

"Warden-Commander."

She turned her head.

"May the Maker watch over you," he said, crossing his arms in front of his chest in deference. This woman, whether he liked it or not, was the Commander of the Grey, and she had risked everything to slay the archdemon. He knew that she deserved respect for her sacrifice and her suffering. The blue cloak billowed behind her like a blue banner, and the golden griffon flashed in the morning sunlight.

"And the Maker watch over you," she said. Then she jerked the rein and turned her horse in a trot. The Wardens left one by one through the gates, Levian bringing up the rear.

The Wardens walked their horses through the city of Val Royeaux, their gaits clip-clopping on the cobbled streets as they rode through. They took the widest route out of the city, but even then, the city wasn't called an escargot for nothing; they crossed _Grant-Pont_ fairly easily, and avoided the _Les Halles_ area due to its morning market bustle, going east first toward _Parlement_ then moving north toward the city walls. They were hearing the bells signalling the terce just as they were leaving the city proper, and saw the faithful walking toward the Cathedral for the morning services. It was a typical Val Royeaux morning, with activities everywhere, the din of the market overheard from the silence of the nearby streets, the drone of the Chant a faint, pleasant hum in the ears.

The guard at the gates looked at the approaching riders with some wariness, but as soon as he saw Amarina's golden griffon on the chest, he snapped into a salute. "Warden-Commander!" he greeted. A mage stood nearby, a faint blue glow around his fingers as he checked the authenticity of the documents presented by travellers. The Wardens dug around their belts and produced sheafs of parchment, wrapped carefully in oilskin and waxy paper. They were passports, issued by Weisshaupt and written in the black ink to prevent fading and with the seals of the Grey Wardens at the bottom; the Orlesian Wardens all carried one, issued by the Commander of the Grey in the name of the First Warden and notarised by the Chantry official, the seals blue, gold, and white.

"Amarina Theirin… Alistair Theirin…" The guards inspected the parchments first, checking the rearing griffons and the sunburst imprinted in the wax. The mage came over, done with the group of minstrels who were leaving the city to head to Ghislain, his fingers glowing blue. He cast his hands over the documents, but nothing happened.

"These are real, Bevis." The mage said. "And I've seen these two before. She's the Hero of Ferelden, and that one's married to her."

"Hurrah for notoriety," Alistair whispered with a grin; Amarina did not respond, but merely received her document back and carefully tucked it into her belt. This piece of paper allowed her access to pretty much anywhere. Such was the influence the Grey Wardens held on Thedas; every time there was a Blight, the Wardens would have to put their lives on the line to save thousands of people, and in return, they were above most laws of the land. Hailed as heroes, it was easy to get free lodging and even free food.

They rode out of the city, Alistair in the front, Gaspard in the back. The Imperial Highway was well paved, a legacy of the might of the Tevinter Imperium, and for that, the Wardens were thankful. Dirt roads flooded when it rained, and even in the best of the weather the holes and the bumps made the journey an unpleasant one. They rode at a good pace going east.

"How long has it been since you've been in Ferelden?" Gelsomina asked the blond Warden. Amarina was behind them, talking with Gaspard about where to stop for the night and the inns ahead. The Alistair looked ahead thoughtfully.

"Let's see… I haven't really been back since the wedding, so… four years?" He turned his head. "Is that right?"

"Is what right?" asked his wife.

"We haven't been in Ferelden for four years."

Amarina shrugged. "Give or take a few months." She then started. "Oh Maker, it's only been four years."

"Feels longer?"

"Lev, it feels like I've been married to Alistair for a decade. I feel like I've been in Orlais for half my life."

They stopped at a roadside inn for the evening, where the horses were taken to the stable to be taken care of. The inn was clean, the barkeep looking happy that the famed Warden-Commander was there to grace the customers with her presence, but was disappointed when her companions pointed out that the Warden-Commander was neither of the blond men in armour, nor was it the Dalish elf, but the slight-looking woman who was dozing off in her seat. Fancies shattered, the barkeep returned to his wife in the kitchen and noted that "stories were not all that it was told to be".

But the food was good, the ham cured well, the pottage thick and the bread warm, and the bed was clean, the duvets aired out. Levian went outside after supper for a walk, and Gaspard joined a group of men for a game of Wicked Grace and to hear some information while spending a silver or two. Alistair had gone off to the stables to check on the horses, or so he had said. Amarina knew better; he had just avoided getting caught in the possible crossfire, knowing what Amarina was about to tell the younger mage.

"Absolutely no bedding men," Amarina told her fellow mage when she caught her trying to slink off. "I don't want trouble, Gelsomina."

"Excuse me, but why are…"

"It's my business. I don't want you to leave a trail of broken-hearted men in every town," she explained. "They tend to remember people who broke their hearts far better than those whose hearts remain intact."

The Warden's green eyes widened in anger, but the elven woman did not back down either. After a moment of intense staring match, the girl stormed off, a sullen pout on her lips, her coppery hair bouncing around her shoulders. The elder woman rubbed her eyes, weary. Four years of staying in one place had made her senses dull, she supposed, and she berated herself. She would soon need to be full-on alert. She felt she was getting older; she had been younger than Gelsomina when she and Alistair had started on what seemed a hopeless journey to stop the Blight.

She shook her head. It had only been eight years ago. But eight years was a long time; Petra, back at the Circle Tower, was no longer an apprentice, Finn was in Tevinter, Anora was close to completing the university. Time went on, merciless, allowing one to neither slow down nor speed up. Someday, her Calling would come; and then she would go, hopefully with Alistair at her side. But until then… until when? Until she was doomed to die in some filthy corner of the Deep Roads, a blade in her back? After all that she had done?

"What's wrong, dear wife?"

"Thinking about just how much time has passed," she said. "I was younger than Gelsomina when we woke up in Flemeth's hut, you know."

Alistair swallowed the ale, letting the rich, dark flavour of hops fill his mouth. As long as he knew, Amarina never drank ale. She drank wine and water, but he had never seen her drinking any other spirits. He remembered staring across the swamps, trying to come to terms with Ostagar, when his wife - well, not his wife then - had emerged from the hut, alive. Battered, worn, and definitely thinner, but alive. Grief and fear in her eyes. When he had proposed that they do what the Grey Wardens were supposed to do, she had agreed, but he could see what she said in her eyes: _we're the most junior Grey Wardens, I've only been a Warden for less than a week, what do you expect me to do?_ But she had taken the task given her and completed them, one by one.

"How were the horses?" Amarina asked, nursing a goblet of wine.

"They were dried down and fed." He looked at her, saw her looking drowsy. "You should go to bed. You look tired."

"I _am_ tired. I didn't realise how complacent I've become. To think that I could cover the same distance on foot, and not be this tired at the end of the day, eight years ago… I'm getting old."

"Well, so are we all. Go to bed."

"I will." She took in the last dregs of the wine, then stood up. "When you come in, please don't slam the door." With that, she got up, and went upstairs, the hilt of the sword on her back gleaming gold as she disappeared into the darkness.

Gelsomina was long asleep - or she was pretending to be - when Amarina had arrived at their room. For the sake of safety and because Gaspard knew that coins didn't regenerate themselves, they had decided that they'll take a large room and have the cots brought in. Tugging off the brigandine and yanking off the boots, the elven woman crawled into bed. She didn't bother taking anything else off. As soon as her head hit the pillow, she was asleep. The men came in sometime later, talking in whispering voices, careful not to wake the women up as they tugged off their armour, pulled off their boots, stashed daggers under the pillows. The two women were mages and could easy freeze an attacker amidst the tracks, but the men were not and needed a little messier solution.

Soon, there were five, steady breaths in the room, a thump as someone rolled over. Sleep claimed them as they slept off the weariness of the first day of travel. They did not dream, and no shrieks awoke them. Dawn came, her rosy fingers creeping through the sky and parting the darkness, and the birds sang their songs to rouse them, to start them on the second day of travel.


	8. Lydes I

Hello hello hello!

Sorry this took so long. I got bored... and I kind of did nothing for the past month. But it's up now, and I'm writing the next chapter, so hurrah.

To all of you who gave me criticisms, here and out: thank you so much! A lot of times I get a new story arc, or a new writing technique from you, so it really helps. I especially welcome criticisms for Alistair, because I find writing the relationship balance between the Surana and him a bit difficult. I also found Gelsomina's very difficult to write. So any suggestions about her would be welcome.

Anyway, here we go...

Chapter IV: Lydes

The journey continued on without much event. The Imperial Highway was well-travelled, and they went south, catching a ship across the Waking Sea; they could have crossed the Sea from Val Royeaux, but that meant traversing the waters would take longer, and the horses would not fare well. And so they rode then crossed the channel. There were a few attacks from straggling bandits who saw the glint of gold on the hilts and thick cloaks, but as soon as they saw the rearing griffon they went scrabbling for cover.

"I really wish if they'd stop treating us like we're a band of ogres," Gaspard complained as he sheathed his greatsword. There had been another scuffle, but Amarina's shrill cry of a spell had frozen its leader dead in the tracks, and Gelsomina had shot a spell that made the men almost stumble with sudden weariness. The blond warrior, wielding a large sword, charging and crying a battle cry on a horse, had been enough to send the bandits into the woods and possibly out of business. It hadn't helped them that Amarina's mabari hound had become very irritated with the noise and bit one of the bandits on the ankle. The bandit had screamed like it was the end of the world and hobbled away. Rabbit growled.

"They must be desperate," said Levian. "It's not wise to attack horsemen." He was sheathing a dagger into a sheath at his hip. "The roads seem more infested than usual. Wonder why?"

"They said something about the Sun Gates being closed, back at the inn," Amarina replied as she got off the horse to check on her faithful friend. "Something about riots in Val Royeaux."

"Riots?"

"Something about de Chalons plotting to overthrow Celene. And Imperial Chancellor mandating conscription." She jerked on the reins to avoid a pothole. "Getting through to Jader won't be easy." She checked Rabbit's teeth; he was getting older, but his teeth were still sharp. "Good boy," she crooned. "That man was annoying, wasn't he?"

The dog ruffed and bounded into her arms. She laughed and hugged him. Rabbit had been her faithful hound since her first departure from Ostagar, seven years before, and apart from his stay in Denerim while she was in Amaranthine, he had been with her ever since. In the beginning, the dog had clearly seen Alistair as a rival to be contended with, but the years had taught him otherwise and Rabbit was now obedient to his mistress's husband. Of course, Alistair knew that the dog was only obedient to please his mistress, not because the hound had acknowledged the man's superiority. In Rabbit's head Alistair probably ranked below the hound himself.

"Wait, who overthrew who?" Gaspard exclaimed as Amarina checked his paws.

"De Chalons tried to overthrow Celene by ambushing her at Halamshiral," Alistair said. "Or that's what the rumour says."

"And Celene?"

Shrug. "Nobody knows."

"How did the empress arrive at Halamshiral so quickly? She must have left only a few days before us, at most."

Gaspard gave it a thought. "She must have ridden the horses hard," he told Gelsomina. "We saw her at Opalia, so even if she left right away, we're still five days away from Halamshiral… she must have ridden the horses down. Did they say when this happened?"

"They reckon five days ago, or so. News travels fast."

"We have to be careful," said Amarina. She was climbing back onto the horse. "I don't want to get involved in this. Last time I saved a captured queen, I got thrown in the deepest hole they could find with nothing but smallclothes on me. We might not be able to return to Val Royeaux as readily as I'd expected." She nudged the horse into a trot.

"How are the nobles acting?" Alistair asked as he followed his wife. "If this was Ferelden, there'll be an uproar… but I suppose Orlais is different."

Gaspard shrugged. "The nobles are in even more disarray, you know. Montfort and Arlange got killed by Champion of Kirkwall, although Maker only knows what he was doing at Montfort's Wyvern Hunt. That made a huge power hole, and half the nobles are too busy divvying up the wealth."

"I thought about sending the Champion a thank you letter," Amarina said with a dry humour. "Montfort at least had the civility to not call me an elven whore in my face. Arlange never got told by his tutor that it's not a good idea to call a woman a whore when she has a sword on her back."

"Isn't he the one who called you a Fereldan bitch lord a few years ago?" Levian asked to the blond warrior. "And called Amarina an elven slut? And then you told him that he's very lucky that he can afford to offend us, since even darkspawn would avoid him because he wasn't palatable?"

Alistair shrugged. "More or less. I'm still clueless as to why he thought it's beneficial to say such a thing. It's not as if offending us would gain anyone's favour."

"Nobody ever accused Arlange for his intelligence," Levian replied, grinning.

"Except himself. I never was a fan of Arlange," Gaspard said with a smile. "My father and Montfort were enemies a few years ago, and Arlange was a toady."

"Few years ago?"

Gaspard looked at Alistair. "You can't make enemies out of dead men. Without magic, at least."

Gelsomina looked at the Wardens in amazement. Two elves speaking of Orlesian nobility as if they were their neighbours! Unthinkable! But then she remembered that this slight woman had commanded a keep and the surrounding lands for two years, before she was freed from her duties in Ferelden. If she had said differently, the man who rode ahead of her would be the king of Ferelden by now.

In the meanwhile, the men were discussing something else. "You know…" said Gaspard, as he followed after the Warden-Commander.

"What?"

"I don't see much difference in the way she treats Rabbit from the way she treats you, Alistair."

"That's right. I'm just one of her dogs."

Lydes was a city, but a small one and far more organised compared to the sprawling maze called Val Royeaux. They found a clean inn, and settled in before the Vesper bells were heard from the Chantry. They were half-heartedly discussing the travel during dinner when the neighbour joined in and delivered the bad news.

"Can't get out of Lydes right now," the neighbour - a chevalier from the looks of his dress - said. The Wardens stared at the intruder. "Why not?" Gaspard asked.

"The gates are locked. De Charon's riffraff and Celene missing and whatnot. Bloody good timing too, I need to get to Halamshiral by next week. Now I'll be lucky if I can be on my way by then." The knight looked thoroughly vexed. "My garrison commander will probably have my head. Slop duty for a month. Andraste's sword, why do they have to do it now?"

"We got in," Amarina pointed out. The chevalier clearly thought she spoke out of her place, but let the transgression go. No doubt her betters will reprimand her later; no point in embarrassing her masters in the public.

"You can get in. You can't get out," the man explained with a look of patience. "The city can't afford being seen as siding one party or the other. This way, no one can blame the lord mayor of letting an assassin through."

"But why not just block off entirely?"

Gaspard shrugged. "Commerce. Visitors drop money, Lydes gets income. Longer visitors stay, more income the city gets." He sipped his ale. "Clever, really. No harm done to the city."

They waited for the knight to resume drinking, then began to discuss the course of exit out of the city with frowns on their faces. "We can't flounder here," Amarina said. "I don't exactly have a deadline, but I can't exactly explain away the delay to the First Warden if we're so behind schedule it looks suspicious. I didn't exactly tell him that we'd be heading out to Ferelden first."

"What?" Alistair stared at his wife. "I thought you had permission!"

"I don't need one, technically. He never ordered me to go to Anderfels immediately… it's not like he orders us about, you know, unless he needs to." Alistair shut up, reminded that she outranked him within the order. "But his wording made it clear he assumed I would, and I don't want him to think otherwise." She looked worried. "Things can get very messy if your superior thinks you'd be disobedient."

"You aren't, technically," said Levian.

"I know. But would you tell that to Celene, for instance?"

"I suppose not. Can't we make the Lord Mayor issue us an exception?"

Amarina and Gaspard considered this. Finally, the Warden-Commander nodded. "It might work. We're generally a neutral order, so it's obvious we don't have vested interest in this rebellion. We need to pick who's going to go meet him with care, though." She looked at Gaspard. "Gaspard, you go."

"Why not you?" Levian asked her.

"Because I'm an elf," came back the cynical reply.

"But you're the Warden-Commander."

"This isn't Ferelden, Alistair. Oh sure, the Lord-Mayor'll receive me gracefully, then promptly forget about me as soon as I leave. We need him to write that dispensation without ado. We might be someone noticeable in Val Royeaux, but who's to say Lord-Mayor isn't Arlange Number Two?" She shrugged. "Lev and I are out, because we're elves. Gelsomina's too young. You're out, Alistair, because you're plainly Fereldan. Gaspard's a Soliere. That should do the trick." She looked at her fellow Warden. "I'll write a letter, so you can stick that under his nose too. A letter from the Commander of the Grey should sound scary enough."

Gaspard grimaced. He had never liked being part of the nobility, and had initially asked Alistair to not give any concern for his social status when Alistair had first came to Orlais. Alistair, who had been in a similar situation, understood immediately; Amarina had never given an ounce of concern for aristocracy to begin with. All in all, Gaspard hated being the noble. But he also was aware that sometimes, being a Soliere meant more to some people than being a Grey Warden. Or being brave or kind-hearted. Some people placed far too much import on bloodlines.

"I know you don't like it," Amarina said at the grimace. "But I can't think of anything else, and faster we get out of Orlais, the better. Things aren't going to be very pretty for the next few months."

Gelsomina observed the Fereldan Warden closely. He was clearly not pleased with his wife's decision to covertly defy the First Warden, nor her faint reminder that the woman he had married could order him about, if she wished. She had heard that Alistair had been in a recessive role during the Blight, but clearly he did not like being in that role against his choice. This puzzled her, but she decided not to dwell on it. The knowledge was all the mattered, and she would use it to her advantage.

She wasn't entirely sure why she disliked the Warden-Commander so much. It was not as if Amarina had berated her, abused her, or even done anything to her. Perhaps it was the Commander's elven heritage and her uncanny resemblance to an apprentice she knew back in Montsimmard. Esmé and she had been rivals, but the competition had turned dangerous when they both fell in love with a young templar who was obviously not as fervent in his religious duties as his fellows. That was when the pulling of legs had gotten out of hand.

Abelard had flirted with both, damn him, and both had done everything they could to gain a fleeting glance from him or even a smile. But in the end, he had chosen that elven bitch; no doubt she had fluttered her long eyelashes at the fool, or gave him a starry-eyed look with that large blue eyes of hers. On that fateful night, Esmé had smugly come out of his bedchamber dressed in nothing but a gown and had told Gelsomina every single detail of the bedding, how he loved her thin body, her delicate face, her willowy frame. She had even showed the bruises on her neck where Abelard's lips had sucked on her skin too hard. At that moment, Gelsomina's anger had burst. Abelard should have picked her, not that elven slut. She was an elf, for Maker's sake, someone who was so lowly born it was lucky for her to even be in the Circle. Jealousy for elven beauty and anger at being thwarted by someone who should have been a servant took control of her, and Gelsomina had reported the tryst to the Knight-Captain in rage.

The Knight-Captain reacted as Gelsomina expected, but Esmé did not admit defeat without using weapons of her own. Summoned to the Knight-Captain's office, the elven harlot had faced down the accusations while Abelard just trembled in fear, but also tattled that Gelsomina had dabbled in blood magic, had done the forbidden. And indeed she had, hoping that the forbidden arts would sway the favour to her. That was undeniable. She could still remember Esmé's face as she had told the templar of Gelsomina's transgression, saying that their sin was love but hers was far greater.

The Knight-Captain had yelled at the two lovers to leave the room, then had sentenced her to death. Desperate, she had fled and had begged the Grey Wardens to take her in, knowing that if they invoked the Rights of Conscription, she would be safe. Not knowing her crimes, the Wardens had agreed readily, and by the time the templars had come after her, it was too late. She was safe, untouchable by law. Or so she thought.

Of course, the Senior Warden there was furious at her for duping him and forcing his hand. Irate, the Warden had passed her off to Jader, but Jader had refused to take her in. She was eventually passed off to Val Royeaux, and the Wardens there had taken her in. She never understood why, but she wasn't the one to question her good fortune and destroy it by doing so. But it still rankled the mage that a mere elven bitch had stolen away the templar, and then had nearly gotten her executed to add to the insult.

And the situation was far too close to not aggravate her wounds. The elven woman in a superior position to her. They even looked similar, with the earnest-looking face and the expressions of innocence. Of course, neither of them was innocent - elven women were harlots and whores, the lot of them - but the Fereldan male was clearly fooled. Well, the Warden-Commander would not make an idiot out of her. It never occurred to her that Amarina had accepted the mage because she didn't dare send the mage out to Ghislain where the situations were constantly tense. She'd give the bitch the grief she had felt when Esmé had come out of that room.

The seed had been planted already. Ever since they had left Val Royeaux she had remained close at Alistair's side. The blond warrior seemed to have no suspicions about her intent, and if Amarina had noticed, she said nothing. She had made sure Amarina heard the younger mage flirt with her husband, hear her voice fears and the man comfort her in return. Amarina had not responded, merely going about her business as usual.

But the chance would present itself soon. Gelsomina just had to watch out for it. She won't be foolish this time. And when she'd deal the blow, the elf would know her folly, would know her place.

First time, shame on you, second time, shame on me, the adage went. Well, Gelsomina was not going to feel shame.


	9. Lydes II

Gaspard set out from the inn soon after the Tierce bell rang throughout the city. He left his greatsword behind, knowing that he'd have to disarm when he got to the manor anyway. He did, however, carry a few daggers with him. None of his friends looked happy at the thought of him walking through Lydes in full Warden garb unarmed.

"I'll be fine. I'd get disarmed at the manor anyway." Gaspard told Alistair, who looked as if someone had shoved a very sour lemon in his mouth. Amarina had gone to the city hall, trying to find out news. The Warden-Commander had more than enough headaches nowadays, with the journey, the mage uprising, and the rebellion in Halamshiral. It didn't help that they kept seeing templars everywhere, or that people seemed far too eager to torch mages at the stakes. The only reason the templars hadn't jumped all over Gelsomina was because she was dressed as a Grey Warden. Amarina had taken care to not be seen wielding a staff. People were blaming both the templars and the mages for everything from bad weather to missing children, and despite all the nonsense about Hero of Ferelden, she knew that people's minds were fickle and would easily turn on anything they could.

And so Gaspard set out for the Lord's manor, Amarina and Levian to the city hall, Alistair and Gelsomina to the barracks. They decided to meet back at the inn when None bell would ring, although they all said that it might take longer than expected. None of them asked questions as they left the inn.

Gaspard walked through the city market district. Most of the cities were built in similar manner; the nobles' estates in the prime location, market in the centre, slums and Alienage as far away from the nobles' district as possible. It took less than half an hour to walk across Lydes and enter the nobles' estate area. Compared to the marketplace, where things were noisy, raucous, and much livelier with people's lives jumbled and entwined like a tangle of threads, the nobles' district was quiet, with hardly anyone walking around. Birds were singing and fountains threw its crystalline decorations into the air, flowers perfumed the winds and trees played silent music. But it was quiet, so quiet. Gaspard realised that he had lived in a place like this as a child, wondered how; he was used to the vivacity of the markets, the clamour of steel in the barracks, people chattering about their days in Val Royeaux. He liked it.

He had to ask the guards where the Mayor's manor was. At first, they scoffed at his blue and silver armour, his lack of arms, his blond hair tied at the nape of his neck, but a quick flash of the Soliere signet completed the metamorphosis he needed. As soon as he showed his signet and the Grey Warden's symbol on his chest, the guards snapped to attention, and a pair of them even offered to leave their posts and escort him to the manor. He waved them away, saying that dereliction of duty was unnecessary, and escorted himself to the mansion.

The mansion was smaller than the compound at Val Royeaux, or his home for that matter. The doorway was smaller than the gate at the Val Royeaux compound, but far more overstated. The Wardens built for the sake of utility; they had no need to exhibit their powers. He told the sentry his purpose and his rank, did some hand-waving (was his signet the key to every mansion in Lydes? He wondered), and was shown in by a manservant who was clearly not impressed that a mere Warden had dared see the Lord-Mayor. The insides were done a bit over the top for Gaspard's taste as well, with heavy gold-threaded tapestries, stone busts that glared at him as he passed by, and the scent of strong rose and musk in the air.

"My lord," the old manservant said, rapping on the door, "There is someone to see you. A Grey Warden."

"Come in." Wheezing timbre and a high pitch that would surely get on his nerves quite soon. Gaspard braced himself, realising that he had been in rather pleasant company all this time. He was also reminded of just how much he hated the nobility in general. Fawning, simpering lot, all of them, living pampered lives on top of peasants' labour, fighters' blood and mages' oppression.

The Lord-Mayor of Lydes was a very thin man with greying hair and a droopy mouth. He also had a very irritating, raspy voice and an expression that told Gaspard he would boss around those who were weaker than he and brown-nose to those who were stronger. Gaspard had seen many like him, and hated them all for their slyness and cowardice. He fought the urge to box the man across the room and yell at him as the older man simpered.

He presented the letter without a word, not trusting himself to be polite. The man stared at the seal of a griffon in the yellow wax. "Who is this from?" the man wheezed.

"The Commander of the Grey."

"Ah." A frown. "Where is he?"

He, not she. Gaspard let that go. Amarina had asked him to not disclose any personal information about her; "it seems that I've been told to be ten feet tall, spit fire and can call storm with my voice," she had said with amusement. "I think that guise would suit all of us far better than people knowing that I'm a female elf." Of course, her identity was no secret in the highest circles in Val Royeaux, but the Warden-Commander had tried her best to keep others in the dark. "The Commander of the Grey sends regrets for not being able to attend personally," he said, cool as cucumber. "The commander has sent me in the stead. I am Gaspard de Soliere, son of Duke Guy de Soliere and a Senior Warden in service of the Commander of the Grey of the Orlesian Empire." He had only given his first name to the servant, and that he was a messenger for the Grey Wardens. The man's eyes widened.

"Your grace! You grace me with…" Gaspard waved his hand, cutting him off. "Please, I only act in my capacity as a Senior Warden. And I am only a messenger." He pointedly looked at the letter.

The Lord-Mayor got the hint instantly. Nodding, he broke the seal and began to read.

Gaspard knew the contents of the letter. Amarina had written it the night before, and had shown the draft to her companions before penning the final. The letter sounded cordial, and the handwriting was cultivated and neat, but all in all, the letter imperiously demanded permission for the party to leave the city. Subtly worded, of course, but the demand was there. The use of her title and her status was a reminder that the Grey Wardens were not to be refused.

Amarina played her cards closely and well; her use of the official title, the seal in the wax, and sending the letter rather than appearing in front of the man herself had ensured that her demands would not be taken lightly. If the Lord-Mayor dared make light of the situation, Gaspard could casually remind the man that he was talking to a Soliere, and that Gaspard far-outranked the old snivelling despot. She had also blocked off the possibility of the old man accusing her of disrespect to him in her absence by sending Gaspard instead.

Dealing with the conspiracies in Val Royeaux and dodging requests to take sides in matters had made the Warden-Commander an exceptionally sly politician. She had played well when she was in Ferelden, dealing with Loghain Mac Tir and the people of Amaranthine, but Fereldans were loyal people in general who frowned upon chicaneries. Orlesians had no such qualms, and in the Orlesian treacheries, the elf's skills had reached the realm of an art form.

The Lord-Mayor read the letter slowly, then looked up. "I cannot…" he began.

"The Commander of the Grey assures that the order will remain neutral in the current conflict," the Warden replied, fiddling with signet on his hand. His father had allowed him to keep the signet of the Soliere on his hand - Guy de Soliere knew why the Wardens valued his son so much, and loved him enough to help his son serve the order as well as he could - and he now used it to remind the man of his importance. He was a Soliere, and he was conveying the words of the Commander of the Grey. Refuting outright might antagonise a very powerful family. And the Grey Wardens.

"I must confer with my advisers," the man said at last. "Will you give me some time?"

If the Lord-Mayor intended to get rid of him this way, he was in for a surprise. "Of course. Would you be kind enough to show me where I can wait?"

The Lord-Mayor scowled, but rang the bell on his desk twice. A man dressed in fashionably tailored clothing appeared in the doorway, if subdued in colour. A steward, probably; Gaspard's house had a score of these people, all doing this or that, and Gaspard could smell the subservience from a mile away. He followed the man who led the way down the hall, checking to see if the small rondel daggers he had in his gauntlets were half out of their sheaths. If the Lord-Mayor ordered him to be executed, he needed to be ready to fight his way out of the manor. Better safe than sorry.

The room he was shown into was a beautiful sitting room with windows overlooking the small pond that seemed to be part of the garden. The steward rang a bell and ordered the maid to bring in refreshments for the esteemed guest, despite Gaspard's protests that he had already eaten. He was made to sit in a comfortable armchair while two maids returned with a tray of refreshments and a jug of cold, chilled white wine. The steward fussed with them for a little while, irritating Gaspard to no end - he wanted to be alone - and finally he told the man that he was fine, and he'll call if he needed anything. After much bowing and ensuring that his needs were seen to, the steward excused himself.

Fifteen minutes passed, then thirty. Gaspard picked up a Tevinter classic from the bookcase and began to read it, engrossing himself in the story of one mage who rose to power and fame through nothing but pure dumb luck, good looks, and a glib tongue. He uninterestedly followed the mage's adventures as he seemingly hopped from one woman's bed to another, while amassing treasure, glory and power along the way. He was right where the mage was seducing an elven princess to bed when the door opened.

"My lord."

Gaspard looked up, closing the book with a soft thump. The steward was there again, the dark brown silk and the gold embroidery not blending in very well with the interior.

"Lord-Mayor has arrived at a decision," the steward said. "Accompany me, please."

Putting the book onto the table, Gaspard followded. He could hear the Sext bell, and reminded himself that he needed to eat something when he got back. Perhaps Amarina was already back with Levian, or Alistair and Gelsomina. His throat was getting dry and he wanted a nice glass of cold wine; white, he thought, not too dry. From northern Orlais. Yes, that would be very nice. They'd lunch on cold meat and cheese, then they'd perhaps discuss what they had discovered…

"My lord, Gaspard de Soliere."

"Come in," said the Lord-Mayor. The steward opened the door for him, and Gaspard went into the study again. The Lord-Mayor was looking out the window toward the forest, his hands clasped behind his back, but he turned when he heard the Warden enter the room.

"Ah, Lord Soliere," he said. "My advisers and I discussed the matter. We had a bit of an argument, you know. We know the service you have done for us, but rule is rule, and we had passed the law with good reason."

"Of course." _Of course you did, you git, you just don't want to get involved._

"But we have arrived at an agreement." He picked up the parchment, folded in three, and handed it to Gaspard. "Please make sure the contents are to your liking."

Gaspard unfolded the parchment carefully, then began to read. The writing was orderly but did not have Amarina's grace; but then again, she was a mage, and she had been penning words, spells, lores all her life. The ink was black and smelled of oily pigments. He began to read, saw that it certified the Grey Wardens of Orlais to pass through the gates of Lydes unhindered, ordered in the name of the Lord-Mayor. It was good enough.

"This is more than adequate, my lord," he said, bowing his head as he returned the parchment. "Thank you."

The man dripped the grey wax onto the parchment under his name, then imprinted the seal of Lydes into the grey blob. The seal was depicted the fleur-de-lis with a key overlaid on top. He handed the parchment back to Gaspard.

"Travel well," he said.

Gaspard bowed again, swearing that this was the last time he bowed to this man, and left the chamber, eager to get fresh air, the commotion of the marketplace. He hurried through the nobles' district, and was walking across the marketplace when he saw two very familiar heads walking toward him, deep in conversation. He kept on walking, and Amarina saw him first. She smiled, stopped her gait, then waved. Levian noticed that his companion had stopped, looked at her irritably, then noticed the tall human walking toward them. Gaspard walked faster, eager to talk to his friends the good news.

"How did it go?" Amarina asked as Gaspard joined them. The sun flashed on her cloak's silver clasp and shone into his eye, making him squint. "Can we leave?"

"Thank me later," Gaspard grinned. "Any news?"

Their news was not as good as his. Val Royeaux was in an uproar; the mages and the templars' situation was getting tense, and people were getting very afraid. Celene was missing. The darkspawn raids were increasing, and nobody knew why. Tevinters were seizing this panic to kidnap more slaves.

"The templars are really nervous," Amarina said. "Some of them seem to think that this will give them free reign to do what they always wanted to do."

"And what's that?" Gaspard, who was neither a mage nor a templar, had no idea what the situation was.

"The usual. Rape apprentices. Kill mages for sport." Her expression was dark. "I was lucky, Ferelden Circle was very disciplined. But other circles…"

"Alistair was a templar, no?"

Amarina nodded, a smile on her face. "He was about to be. We do make an awfully contradictory couple. But this makes travelling more challenging. We have two mages…"

"And one of them is a maleficar. We'd have to be careful."

"And Celene's missing," Levian added. "No doubt some of them would think we're spies. We should get to Jader as soon as possible. I don't think they'll follow us into the Deep Roads."

Gaspard groaned, began ticking the problems off with his fingers. "No, we'd have darkspawn instead. So, let me review. Celene's gone and Orlais is divided in two, mages and templars are about to declare war on each other any day now dividing Orlais into four, darkspawn raids are popping up like mushrooms after rain and they just disappear before we can get to the scene. Anything else?"

"No, that's about it."

"Well, we can't do anything about Celene, we'd just have to conceal that our women are mages, and we're on here because of the darkspawn raids to begin with." He shrugged. "We'd just have to travel carefully until we get into the Deep Roads. Let's hope we find something in Ostagar."

* * *

Gaspard handed over the ordinance that evening with much flourish. "Thank me," he commanded imperiously, "for I had suffered at the hands of nobility much to deliver this into your hands, Warden-Commander."

Gelsomina looked at the Warden-Commander as she received the parchment, saw her give a little laugh. "Thank you," the slight woman said, mirth in her eyes. "You shall be richly rewarded for your efforts."

"With what, I wonder?"

"Another round of ale? I can't afford a duchy."

"Well, you can buy me a bath," Gaspard returned. "I certainly need one. I really need to get rid of the smell of incense."

"I like it," said the woman.

"I don't. It reminds me of my old tutor. All he could recite was the Chant of Light, and half the time it was wrong. I got a thorough thrashing when it was my turn to recite it for the first time. Half the words were wrong."

"All right, all right," Amarina said, grinning. "I'll order a bath for you."

"Speaking of scents, you smell of something pleasant, Warden-Commander. Is that your natural scent?"

Amarina looked at her; Gelsomina could tell that she had no doubts about her. Such trusts were foolish, she thought, but she controlled her face, gave her a smile that hopefully seemed sincere. Esmé would never have looked like this. This woman must be very foolish to be so trusting, especially when she had enough life situations in her past to warrant distrust; didn't one of her friends try to kill her? She and Alistair both. So trusting, as if the world was a good place with good people.

"The soap, maybe?"

Gelsomina shook her head. "It's… flowers. You smell of flowers."

"Oh, that." Amarina laughed. "That's wisteria. Alistair bought a bottle of the oil for me back when we were still in Denerim. I've used it since then." She looked at her husband fondly, who was trying to catch the attention of the barmaid. "It makes him very affectionate."

Good to know.

Gaspard was grinning. "So if I wore the scent and snuck into his bed, will he think I'm you?"

Alistair gaped. "Good god, no! I can tell the difference between my wife and you, thank you very much. I'm not that stupid."

"Damn it."

Amarina glared at the Orlesian Warden. "Trying to steal my husband from me, are we?"

Gelsomina jerked, but no one was paying attention. Why should they, with three Senior Wardens and the Warden-Commander? Well, maybe she'd learn that snakes always struck from the shadows, and that it was foolish to not pay attention to her.

"Of course, Warden-Commander. Your husband is a very good-looking species, after all."

The banter continued; Gelsomina did not get involved, but continued to watch the four. Levian laughed at the jokes, Gaspard was cheerful, Amarina's eyes twinkled with humour and Alistair had a smile on his face. Why did they look so happy? Why wasn't any one of them angry at their fate? They were going to die twenty, thirty years from now, hacked into pieces by monstrous creatures. Why wasn't any of them as angry as she was at the lot dealt out to them?

Or did they think they should be happy with the lot they were given?

Well, if they did, then they were fools. Gaspard had let go of a very delicious position as Guy de Soliere's son and a renowned chevalier. He had been promised wealth, women, men, anything he had wanted within Orlais, and out of the blue, he had thrown it all away to join the Order that promised nothing but gruesome death in the end. She didn't know the others' stories, but she was fairly sure all of them had mitigating circumstances that had forced them into this order, like herself. So why weren't they raging? And Amarina Theirin… she could have had a grand duchy to her name if she wanted. Why was she so content in just being a Grey Warden, with nothing to her name but a blade and her spells? And why wasn't Alistair angry at his wife for not selecting him to be king?

When Gelsomina started paying closer attention again, she realised to her dismay that the topic had already moved on.

"Are we leaving tomorrow?" Gaspard was asking.

"Not yet. The Warden-Commander and I haven't got enough information to plan out the route. The information we get are absolute mess, and we need a clear idea on where to avoid." Levian twirled a knife in his hand; the knife was of beautiful make, with golden inlays on the blade, and silver for the bone white handle. "This is a really bad time to move through Orlais. Everyone thinks everyone else is a spy for Celene or de Chalons - or both. Or a spy for the templars. Or the spy for the magi. Everyone's seeing shadows." The elf clapped on his friend's shoulder. "Orlais is a veritable mess, my friend."

Gaspard sighed. "Are we going to go investigate about Celene as well?"

"Absolutely not. I'm not Thedas' babysitter. It should be someone else's duty." Amarina took a swig of the wine, grimacing. "Cassandra Pentaghast was recently claimed as the Hero of Orlais, isn't she? She can save Orlais, not me. I'm a Grey Warden. Blight and darkspawn are my doma…" she cut off her words, seeing a man approach the party. The Wardens all turned toward him.

"Elf," Levian muttered under his breath.

"And terrified." Alistair turned toward him. "Can we help you, stranger?"

"Warden-Commander?" The man gasped. "Where is the Warden-Commander?"

The Wardens now all turned their heads and looked at the elf woman, who was sitting in the corner. She looked irritated for a moment, then sighed.

"Pull up a chair," she said. "And tell me the tale."


	10. Lydes III

The Wardens had listened attentively, asked questions, then promised the man to attend to the matters as soon as possible. After offering some coins so that he could stay in the city for the night - and being refused - the Wardens checked their gear, then headed out to the outskirts. Levian was in the front, checking the ground for traps.

"I don't get it," Gelsomina said. "Why are the darkspawn resurfacing?"

Amarina's expression was dark. The darkspawn had been resurfacing, after four hundred years of silence. They had believed that the end of the Blight will drive the darkspawn back to the Deep Roads, but they had not; and even when Amarina had killed the Architect and the Mother, the darkspawn wave had only receded slightly before they had resurfaced again. She had received reports from as far as Sundermount that darkspawn were being seen, albeit in small numbers. Fighting darkspawn was nothing new for her, but this was. What was bringing them up to the surface? It wasn't another Blight; she had asked around and none of the Wardens had dreamt of a dragon. Just dark ominous dreams that everyone had now and then, with not much coherence.

Nothing serious.

They walked the country road quietly; Levian was concentrating on the path, Amarina was deep in thought, Gaspard was readying himself for a battle after a tiring day. Taking horses had been out of question if they did not want to buy fresh ones here. Only Alistair and Gelsomina were talking, Gelsomina voicing her fears for the first true battle against the darkspawn and Alistair trying to comfort her. If Amarina had not been so preoccupied, she may have noticed that something was very amiss, but she was currently in far too deep of a thought to pay attention to much else. Rabbit was alert, eager for the kill; the dog seemed to know that they were going into battle, and he stayed close to his mistress as he trotted. Sometimes he sniffed the air before going on.

They were just about to enter the valley when Levian stopped them. "Trap," he said, pointing at the ground.

Amarina, jerked from her thoughts, looked at the elf. She realised he was awaiting her orders; it was a simple foothold trap. She could order it disarmed, or leave it for some errant animal - or perhaps darkspawn - to be caught in it. She considered the options for a moment, then ordered the others away from the spot. She bent down, gently touching the blades with gloved fingertips. It came away smeared; the trap was poisoned. She stood up.

"Could you disarm it?"

Instead of answering, Levian drew out a pin from his belt and bent down. As the Dalish worked to spring the trap, Gaspard watched Gelsomina and Alistair with a frown. It was rather obvious that Amarina's mind was elsewhere; she was looking at the distance with a frown on her face. But he also knew of women's devious ploys to get a man and he knew he was seeing it right now. Should he tell her? He eyed the dog, who was sitting quietly by Amarina's feet, his eyes staring at the forest.

"Done. Let's go."

Amarina resumed the march again without a word; the others followed. The darkspawn muck began to appear in the trees that lined the road, and the Wardens drew their weapons. Conversation died as they paid attention to their senses to sense the darkspawn. Levian was in the lead, Gaspard following closely behind, and Alistair automatically closed into his wife as she walked behind the two males. Gelsomina watched as the man went up to the elf, exchange words with her. Each gesture, so familiar to each other, like a secret language that had been spoken between them and only them for years. Amarina listened, nodding at her husband's words, inserting a few questions or objections here and there. Alistair whispered again, and Amarina nodded a bit more firmly this time.

They went ten paces in, then Amarina signalled. The men crowded around her, proffering their blades to her. Gelsomina watched from behind the gathering as Amarina took her blade, touching the blade with her forefinger and her middle. A wave of energy burst from her fingertips as she finished a quick recitation, and the blades began to emit a soft hum. She repeated the process again, but this time with different recitation - or so Gelsomina deduced - since the blades began to burn, emitting orange tongues of fire.

Amarina gestured to move forward. Levian went in the lead, his footsteps silent as he moved; Gaspard was next, his footsteps heavier, then Amarina, her blade drawn, then Alistair. Gelsomina brought up the rear, now truly fearful. The only time she had ever killed darkspawn was during her Joining, and even then she had been protected by the warriors who had accompanied her. But now, she was required, expected to hold up her part of the battle. The Warden-Commander had told her that she wished Gelsomina to stay out of battle if possible, but she had also warned that there might not be anyone to protect her if an errant darkspawn came her way.

Damn the Warden-Commander, with her smugness and her "I'm confident" countenance. No doubt the elf had no care whether she lived or died; that woman thought her subordinates were disposable. Well, except her husband. She probably valued her dog far more than she did her. Well, if that was the case, she'd play along as long as she saw it fit. Damn that elven bitch!

And then a genlock burst from the shrubs, and her thought stopped as Levian twirled on the ball of his foot as he slashed the genlock's throat. The monster toppled to the ground with a gurgle. Alistair shouted at the dog to go to the healer; Amarina slapped her hands together in front of her chest, her blade pointing upward toward the sky as she muttered a few words. A faint, shimmering sphere sprouted from the ground about her, an iridescent red and blue wall around her.

"Commander," Levian muttered as Amarina caught up. "Do you reckon we'd need help?"

She closed her eyes, concentrated. "Maybe. Let's hold off for now." Her eyes opened. "They're coming."

"How many?"

Amarina opened her mouth, but it was Alistair who answered. "There's a good battalion, Gaspard. There's an ogre." The Fereldans, who had been there during the Blight, were more in tune with their Taint and sometimes could pinpoint the locations or the numbers.

"How far are they?"

"About a hundred paces?"

Gaspard raised an eyebrow. "Let's spring them a surprise, then."

Amarina nodded. They walked a bit further, then Gaspard and Alistair broke into a run, their blades held low and charging into the crowd of darkspawn up ahead. Levian, looking like a mere shadow, flitted from the side and joined the fray.

Amarina continued walking; Gelsomina was annoyed. So the famed Warden-Commander would simply let the men take the blows while she went on a leisurely stroll? But her thoughts were cut off as a tall hurlock, dressed in ragged robes, burst out from the forest, shrieking a spell. Amarina shouted a spell of her own, and the two arcane forces met in mid-air. The two mages held their ground for a moment, each forcing their mana to stand, but Amarina yelled another word and the emissary broke the concentration for a fleeting moment. Amarina seized the chance and forced her power to break through. The emissary screamed as it toppled over, dead.

The battle was raging a bit to the distance; the numbers were thinning as the warriors fought on. Alistair had bashed a hurlock's face in with his shield as he freed his blade from another's ribs; Gaspard swung his greatsword low, taking the genlock's head off. Levian was locked in a duel with a shriek, his movements barely visible as he flitted from a shadow to a shadow, his footsteps no louder than a breeze in the grass. Gelsomina watched in amazement as the men worked their ways through the enemies' ranks like a single machine; Gaspard ran his sword through the hurlock as the hurlock tried to sneak up behind the templar Warden, and Alistair decapitated the hurlock that was about to jam the dagger into Levian's back. The ogre joined the fray, but the Wardens did not flinch as they fought their ways through. Alistair and Gaspard fought in tandem against the large creature.

Things were going well until the ogre, clearly annoyed by pesky puny creatures cutting into its foot, reached down and grabbed Gaspard, hoisting him into the air. Levian was locked in a battle with a genlock now, and Alistair was trying to beat off another shriek. Gelsomina nearly shrieked in fear as the ogre slammed a fist into the blond chevalier. Gaspard roared in pain but held onto his sword. Another fist slammed, then again…

A shrill spell pierced through the air like a knife, and a stone as large as the ogre's fist materialised out of nowhere, hurtling through with an astonishing speed at the ogre. It hit the ogre squarely in the head; the creature dropped the warrior, screaming in agony. Gaspard managed to land on his foot.

"Gaspard! Out! Out!" Amarina shouted. "Come back here! Now!"

Gaspard shook his head.

"That's an order!"

The Warden-Commander's tone was so absolute that it left no leeway for a no or an argument. Gaspard came, hobbling. The Warden-Commander turned toward the mage.

"Heal him." With that, she was gone as she ran into the heat of the battle.

Gelsomina made Gaspard sit, watching the battle from the corner of the eye. Rabbit sat beside her, still as a statue, his ears twitching at the slightest rustle. Amarina had jammed her blade into the ground, shouting words that were inaudible in the din, but it seemed to be a spell of paralysis as the darkspawn collectively stopped moving, as if someone had stopped their time and theirs only. The mage checked for wounds, broken bones, scrapes and bruises; apart from battered ribs, it was nothing time would not heal. She cast a healing spell on him and told him to sit still as she made him drink a restorative.

The others were doing a good job of killing darkspawn; Amarina's spell had bought them time, and Alistair had fell the ogre with one leap into the air as he plunged his sword into the eye socket. Levian had cut cleanly across the windpipe of the genlock and then had stabbed another in backhand in one move like a dance. Amarina was engaged with a hurlock, but her arcane field was spitting out lances of magical power as the hurlock closed in. On the fifth hit, the hurlock stumbled; Amarina cleanly cut through the chest with her Spellweaver, ducking to avoid the blood spraying all over her.

It was a short battle, all in all, and apart from Gaspard the injuries were mere scratches or scrapes. The three Wardens returned to where Gaspard and Gelsomina were sitting, after picking the bodies clean then burning them. Alistair was wiping away the darkspawn blood as he walked, Levian was picking the bodies, and Amarina was burning the bodies as she went with a flick of her wrist. The stench was overpowering now, with the inherent darkspawn odour added to the smell of burning flesh.

"How're your ribs?" Alistair asked as they arrived.

"Sore. But healed, I think."

"Any survivors?"

"Darkspawn? No." Alistair closed his eyes, then opened them again. "Nope. None that I can sense, anyway." He looked around. "The darkspawn haven't done too much damage, but the village needs to be cleansed. And we need to alert the other Wardens. They're going to have a busy year."

"And what do you think, Warden-Commander?"

Amarina looked worried; a frown flickered across her features, creasing her brows. She looked to the side in thought.

"What's wrong, dear wife?"

"Something similar happened when I was in Amaranthine," she explained. "Country roads getting attacked, that sort of thing. I'm hoping this is a coincidence, but…"

"There are no coincidences," Levian finished off. Amarina nodded. There might be coincidences, but she doubted it. The Blight was over. The Architect was dead. So what was it now? Why did she have this unsettling feeling?

"Shall we go?"

The train of thought broke, and Amarina re-focused. Alistair was helping Gaspard up, who winced as he stood. They all looked at her, awaiting her command. Just like always. Ever since becoming a Grey Warden, she had always been in the position of command. In the beginning she had been unsure, but commanding became easier after a few months. Now, she almost expected people to look for her guidance.

"Let's go back," she decided. "We'll send a message to Montsimmard, but we can't tarry. We must get out of Orlais as soon as possible, otherwise we'd never get to Ferelden and then to Anderfels on time. We must leave tomorrow morning." She looked at Gaspard. "Can you walk?"

"Not fast."

"Good enough. Let's go."

The five made their way back to the hostel slowly; Amarina ordered Rabbit to stay close to the Orlesian, and the dog faithfully went to Gaspard's side as he walked. Amarina was up ahead, Levian next to her. She checked to see whether the Commander was within earshot; she was not.

"Alistair?"

"Hmm?"

"She can be quite ruthless, can't she?"

The man frowned for a moment, trying to figure out who she was referring to. Then it dawned on him. "You mean, Amarina?"

Gelsomina nodded.

"I suppose. She's a mage, after all."

"I'm a mage."

"It's different."

They had entered the city limits by then, and as Alistair watched, he saw that men turned when they passed by his wife. Rain had began to fall, but she walked ahead without a hood. His wife and the woman next to him were almost opposites of each other, and he had once wondered why men seemed to be entranced by the Warden-Commander. She was not particularly beautiful amongst the elves, although she did have the trademark etherealness of all the elven. This had been before Amarina had chosen him, and it had been before he had realised his own feelings for her.

"She's pure," Zevran had said, laughing as he took a swig of brandy. "There's something very sacred about her, Warden."

"Huh?"

"She's like Andraste," Zevran explained. "Something… untouchable."

And even now, after the years of marriage, Amarina was still as ethereal as she had been, and men caught that aura; there was a mystery about her, inviolate and refusing to be sullied, and it tickled the men, challenged them to open her.

He watched from behind her as Gelsomina continued to talk, realising again that she had never looked at him eye to eye when she was naked. His thought wandered as they walked, to himself, to Cullen. Poor man; if the elf had been a bit more earthly, more carnal, perhaps the templar would not have been attracted to her. But she was innocent as others weren't, like an untouched pearl. Perhaps that was why Cullen had fallen for her.

The rain continued to fall, glistening on the cloaks like bits of crystals scattered amidst the dark wool. He looked up, wondering where they were bound to. He suddenly felt very alone, and yearned for his wife's warmth.


End file.
